We Provide
by E. M. Zeray
Summary: Blaine, the mastermind. Puck, the muscle. Quinn, the thief. Artie, the hacker. And Kurt, the grifter. Sometimes, bad guys are the best good guys. Together, they make up a team that picks up where the law leaves off, providing leverage for those who can't get it themselves. With all of them on board, however, it's one hell of a ride. AU based off the show Leverage, conman!Klaine.
1. The Aphrodite Job

**A/N: Full summary:**

**They're all thieves. However, they all have their different skills before they come together to make up the team. Blaine is the mastermind, the coordinator—he comes up with the ideas, works them down and digests them to make sure they create the perfect con. But even when he does, they don't always turn out right. Puck is their muscle. Strong, courageous, once a professional hit man, he doesn't let anybody get near them. Not if he can help it. Quinn is their resident safecracker. She's renowned worldwide for her thievery, most famously with the largest pink diamond known to man. Artie, although confined to his wheelchair, is no less badass than the rest of them. Give him a computer and he can find out anything anyone wants to know. The internet is his best weapon. Hacker, liar, idea-planter—he can do it all.**

**But there's an anomaly. Kurt. Or Elijah or David or Tall, Bright, and Gorgeous—he goes by more names than Blaine can count. He's a grifter. He's scammed more people out of their money from right under their noses than the American government. And he very rarely stays still. But when he does, it's one hell of a ride.**

**The rich and powerful take what they want. Blaine and his team steal it back for you. They provide…leverage.**

**(The first two parts are short, but from the third one on, they're significantly longer. I hope you enjoy!)**

It was just another job. He was going to get in, mingle, flirt, maybe drink a glass of champagne, and then break into the vault and steal the rarest sculpture of the Greek goddess Aphrodite known to man. He wasn't the most competent safecracker in the world—no, that position was reserved for a very pretty blonde with charming social skills and no last name—but he did all right. He could practically hear the sculpture calling his name.

There was no real motive behind the theft. He was little out of practice, needed to keep his skills fresh and honed. At least, that was what he kept telling himself. He wouldn't let himself acknowledge the truth.

It was two years to the day since Andrew's death. In the end, when the cancer had been too much and the little boy had been too weak, the only thing that ever managed to calm him down was listening to his daddy read him stories. He loved the fairytales, the bright, outlandish, utterly romantic stories about princesses and princes and "happily ever after"s. He would only sleep when Dad sang to him or when Papa read him a happy story. As it all got closer and closer to the end, Papa would tell him stories about love.

Aphrodite, Cupid, Fairy Godmothers—Andrew loved them all. Andrew was so perfect in his fathers' eyes because he was so full of love. The product of love, the piece in their lives that held them together when things were going wrong, to the men, he was the reason they were alive. So that they could take care of him.

It was only six months after his death that his parents broke up. They weren't legally allowed to be married—it was Illinois, not New York—so they couldn't get a divorce, but they gave each other back their rings and even though they tried to make it, tried everything they could think of, they weren't going to be able to stay together. Not with the death of their son hanging over them.

Blaine had been a criminal before that. That was how he and Daniel had met. The successful attorney had gotten caught up in a con and Blaine had fallen head over heels for him. But once they'd gotten together, settled down—rather hastily, he might add, as they were only together for about a year before they decided to have a kid—and found a surrogate, he'd given it up. But at end of the seven year relationship, it had only taken another three months for him to try his hand at it again.

And he was a little rusty. But he was still one of the best.

He wanted that Aphrodite sculpture more than he'd ever wanted another material object. After Andrew had died, he'd had nothing. He'd moved to New York, traveled, left Danny in Chicago with the memories. But it was his turn. He was going to get that piece and it might not work, it might not sooth the aches and the pains and it definitely wouldn't bring his son back, but he was going to do it anyway.

The estate was owned by Cyril Hollingsworth, an unmarried man in his late 60s with more than 3.5 billion dollars to his name. Most of it was inheritance from his long line of wealthy family, but some of it had been earned on his own. Besides the billions, he had over 20 million dollars worth of gems, artwork, and historical artifacts he refused to sell to museums in his private vault. During social events that he had in order to keep his name in the papers, the pieces of interest were displayed in his personal gallery with the highest security imaginable. Blaine had never tried to tackle anything like it.

But he had a plan.

He'd already secured an invite to the party, thanks to an alias as a well-known art collector, and had been researching Hollingsworth's vault for months. The sculpture, as his most expensive possession, was going to be kept in the vault all night unless he spotted someone worthy enough to show it off to.

Blaine just had to be that person.

Of course, he always had a Plan B. Normally, that was the one that ended up working.

The vault wasn't simple by anyone's standards. At best, it would take him a solid ten minutes to crack. There was the matter of getting past the security as well but Blaine thought he could manage that with nothing more than a charming grin and a stun gun.

As it turned out, he was correct.

Hollingsworth was mingling when he arrived and Blaine stuck around in the main room for a while, exuding a confident air—or what he hoped was one—as he chatted with dozens of different people while sneaking occasional glances back at corner that eventually led to the entrance to the vault. Reporters, collectors, politicians—he talked to anyone who would listen in order to establish some kind of credibility for his attendance. Be seen as a loner and you're automatically assumed dangerous. Make friends, be sure to be noticed by somebody, and no one suspects a thing from you.

The hallway that led to the vault from the main hall where the party was taking place was some thirty yards long. At its entrance stood two guards, complete with bulging muscles and firearms. They were easy enough. Blaine wasn't very tall but he was strong and charming and not too bad of an actor.

Playing drunk was easy enough. His breath probably smelled like champagne and as he fidgeted in his fake stupor, it was as simple as _one, two, three_ to disarm the men without them noticing before reaching into his own jacket for his stun gun.

They went down immediately.

The code to get into the hall was another story all together. But, of course, Blaine had done his research.

People like Hollingsworth were more often cocky rather than preventative. Their passwords were birthdays or important dates or things easily accessed through Wikipedia.

It took Blaine two tries. The code was Hollingsworth's mother's birthday.

The vault itself, which could actually just be considered a safe because it really wasn't too large—should have been easy after that. But of course, nothing was ever easy for Blaine Anderson. He'd just settled on his knees, tools in hand—it was a classic model, one that would purr under his hands and open for him in seconds, his favorite kind—when he heard it.

"Don't bother trying."

Blaine shot up like a bullet out of a barrel, pressing his back against the vault door. Before him was a man in a very well-fitted suit. Silver with a matching tie, it was hardly subtle, but it hugged everything perfectly, showed off his broad shoulders and perfect chest, and…damn. He was gorgeous.

The man arched an eyebrow when Blaine stayed silent. "Well, Mr. Short, Dark, and Handsome, I suppose you could try to break in and steal the sculpture but you wouldn't like what you found."

"Why's that?"

"Because I already took it."

Blaine's nostrils flared.

The man was tall, taller than Blaine, and lithe. His skin was practically porcelain and his eyes were an indescribable mix of blue and grey and a million other colors. His hair, perfectly coiffed, was light brown. For all intense and purposes, he should have been rather easily forgettable, another pretty face in a crowd. But there was something special about him. Blaine could tell.

"Why?"

"Because I wanted it." The man's jaw clenched just barely after the words were out. Blaine wouldn't have noticed it if he hadn't been looking for it. A tell.

"Liar."

"Why do you want it?" he countered.

"None of your business," Blaine snapped. "How'd you get it anyway?"

With a great big smirk on his face, Tall, Bright, and Gorgeous—as Blaine had decided to call him in his head for the lack of any better name—said, "Cyril is unmarried for a reason. Once I flirted with him for a bit, he decided to give me a private showing of his more valuable pieces. I made sure the alarm was off when he was distracted and then snuck back in there after he'd gone off to mingle. Replaced it with a fake, reset the alarm, and I was _going_ to leave when I remembered that I promised a friend I'd nab some wine from his collection too. I was going to head downstairs when I saw the security guard passed out and the door open and…here we are."

Blaine couldn't think of anything to say to that. He was too late. Someone else had gotten there first.

"Don't look so sad—I'm sure you're a very competent thief. When, you know, you're not beaten to the punch."

"Shut up," Blaine muttered, tucking his tools back into his inside jacket pocket and avoiding eye contact with the stranger. He felt like his last bit of hope had just been snatched away. Any last bit of connection he still had to Andrew was being picked apart and torn as each day went on. How long would it be before he forgot what he looked like? What he sounded like? His grin when Blaine showed him a new storybook?

Blaine didn't want to forget. He didn't want to forget the way Andrew refused to be sad even though he was in and out of the hospital, his strength, his courage even when Blaine would break down and sob his eyes out, and his sweet, precious little voice when he said, _I'm a prince, Daddy. Just like you and Papa always say. And princes always get happy endings._

"Jeez, you look like a kicked puppy. You could use a drink."

Blaine shook his head as he stormed past the man. "Not with you."

"What is your problem? It was just one piece—he's got hundreds! Hell, I'll steal one for you if you really don't want to leave empty-handed."

Blaine kept walking.

And the stranger didn't follow him.

-0-

It was a headline two days later.

"Rare Aphrodite sculpture held in Hollingsworth vault replaced with forgery."

It was a long-winded article about the Hollingsworth estate, the security, and how the investigation was going to proceed. But Blaine knew the guy would never be caught. He could feel in his gut, an ugly knot of hatred and resentment. He was gone from Blaine's life forever. And he'd taken the sculpture with him.

Blaine lived in an apartment complex over a bar owned by an old friend. His name was Harvey, he was nearing the ripe, old age of 73, and his daughter, Sylvia, was a girl only a few years younger than Blaine. She was gorgeous and smart and, unbeknownst to everyone except for Blaine, one hell of a thief. They liked Blaine. And Blaine liked them.

His apartment was actually more of a loft. It wasn't on the top floor but close, and had two stories. Downstairs, a kitchen, a main room with couch and TV, and then a study. Upstairs, bathroom and bedroom. It was modern-looking, comfortable, and had been home for the past two years. Blaine hadn't wanted it at first because it was so freaking expensive—it was New York after all—but it wasn't like Blaine couldn't afford it. He had a steady income, no matter how unlawful the income might be.

He had just walked in the front door of his home after a morning spent with Sylvia in Central Park when his phone rang.

"That sculpture won't bring him back, Blaine."

He smiled to himself. "Hi, Dan."

"I saw it in the papers," Daniel explained before Blaine could ask. He sounded tired. "Are you really that stupid?"

"It wasn't me. I promise." Blaine was still smiling as he wandered through his loft, kicking off his shoes in front of the couch and then heading towards the spiral staircase in the middle to get to his bedroom. "I might have been there that evening, sure, but I didn't steal the sculpture."

"You thought about it though. Hell, as soon as I heard that it was in the states,_ I_ thought about it."

He reached his bed at sat down at the foot of it just as he sighed, "I'm not doing that stuff anymore, Danny."

"B…"

"Okay, so I _might_ have done a few jobs a couple of months ago but I'm fine. Honestly. I wouldn't try anything that stupid. I'm not gonna risk getting locked up."

Daniel sighed deeply. "Promise me you'll leave the sculpture alone. Even if you find out who took it."

Crossing his fingers behind his back, Blaine put on a huge grin—even though his ex couldn't see him—and said, "I swear."

**A/N: I really hope you guys enjoy this. I've had so much fun writing it. So let me know what you think in a review!**

**All of my love,**

**E. M. Zeray**


	2. The Evasion Job

**A/N: Thank you so much for the comments and reviews! I'm glad you liked the first part and I hope you enjoy the rest. **

"You're the most handsome man in the room."

Blaine grinned, looking to his right and meeting the soft brown eyes of his date. "With the most stunning woman on my arm."

Katelyn McKoy was a 28-year-old, curly-haired brunette with a temper as short as her nails and a smile that drew every eye in the room to her. It didn't hurt that her dress had literally no back and dipped all the way down to a scant inch above her lingerie or the fact that, although she wasn't very tall, her legs looked miles long and she filled a C-cup with no room to spare.

But of course all of that was second to something about her that most men found much more appealing: her bank account. Her late father had been a billionaire and she and her brother reaped the benefits of his advertising genius and business savvy every day. Very few people didn't try to take advantage of that.

"Katie!" called a deep voice off to their left. When they both turned to look, they found—

"Wilson," Katelyn greeted, leaving Blaine's arm to embrace her brother. "You look dashing."

"You look cold."

She giggled primly. "It's fashionable."

"Lucky I can trust Andrew here to keep you out of harm's way, huh?" Wilson asked, thumping Blaine on the back and sending him a wink. "Make sure you keep her by your side all night, Andy. She may be a pain in my ass but I'd like to keep her around for a while longer."

Blaine smiled good-naturedly and nodded his consent. "Of course, Mr. McKoy."

"Oh, psh—don't bother with the title. You're not a geek from the finance squad of my company tonight. No, sir, you're the date of the single most desirable creature in the room—and what a couple you two make. I'll have to have Sarah come and meet you later. But I'll let you two enjoy yourselves a bit before she wanders over and asks you how many children you plan on bringing to the family!" Wilson laughed heartily. At a still rather young age of 36, he had taken remarkably well to the family business. He was charming, polite, but hardworking and well-driven. Not to mention incredibly handsome. His wife Sarah was gorgeous as well. They were a match made in heaven.

Blaine nodded politely, the fake smile still plastered on his face. "I can't wait to meet her, Wilson."

Katelyn slid her arm back around his as she waved off her brother. "C'mon, Andrew—let's find the champagne."

Blaine wasn't proud of having used the name Andrew to get into McKoy Advertisements. Still, he'd had an alias set up for over a year with that name and it was the perfect mask to hide behind in order to get into the business. McKoy Ads was the single most popular advertisement company in North America, but they also had clients in Australia, the UK, and parts of Asia—which meant they were loaded.

It was all set up. All he had to do was get closer and closer to the family. When he was close enough—the degree of "enough" was yet to be determined—they would both trust him to give him the number of their account so that he could complete a wire transaction directly into his own. They would never hear from Andrew Mason or Blaine Anderson ever again.

"You haven't met Brandon yet, have you?" Katelyn muttered to Blaine as she watched something over his shoulder. Without waiting for an answer, although Blaine had been ready to give one, she grabbed his free hand and pulled him around the bar in the middle of the large banquet hall and led him to the other side.

When they stopped, it was in front of a man in a stylish, well-fitted black suit. He was tall, sturdy, and, if Blaine's senses were working properly, extremely gay. Blaine felt his body snap to attention. The man was obviously gorgeous—thick, black hair and a rugged shadow of stubble that was probably a one-day beard, as well as deep green eyes—and the second he got away from Katelyn, he knew exactly what he was going to.

"Brandon, this is Andrew." Katelyn gestured towards her date, beaming proudly. "Brandon is going to be a partner in a matter of months and Andrew is a financer for the firm."

They shook hands. Blaine tried not to leer. "Nice to meet you."

"You as well," Brandon said. His _voice_. Fuck, Blaine was practically melting on the spot. How long had it been since he'd gotten laid?

"I'm sure you two have so much in common," Katelyn continued. "We should go out to the balcony and talk."

Brandon smiled warmly at the woman but shook his head. "I'm afraid I can't. My date just ran off to the restroom but he promised to join me in schmoozing some potential clients as soon as he returns. He's very charming—grew up in London and spends his summers there with his family. And he happens to be quite good friends with a woman here tonight from England that's trying to get her clothing line off the up and running. Says her designs are remarkable."

"Well I can't wait to meet him! He's not like the quiet, little thing you brought to the last event?"

"No, no—worlds apart. Eccentric and exciting—utterly brilliant if you ask me but his accent really sells it." He chuckled. "We've been on a few dates and I just knew he was right for tonight. Honestly, Katie, I can't wait for you to meet him. You'll hit it off immediately."

Blaine pushed his tongue into his cheek before turning to his date. "Can I freshen your glass?" He needed to stop staring at another guy before someone got suspicious. But he also really, _really _needed to get laid.

"We have people for that here, darling."

"Yeah, Andrew." Brandon bumped his shoulder into Blaine's. "Relax. You're not crunching numbers tonight. And you're here with the hottest girl in the room."

"So I've been reminded." Katelyn met his gaze with wide eyes and he lowered his voice to mutter, "Every time I look at her I feel like the luckiest man alive."

She blushed. "Oh, Andrew."

"Smooth," Brandon laughed. "Ah! My date!" Lifting an arm, he gestured over Blaine's shoulder and, in an instant, there was a body beside him. "Jesse, this is Katelyn—Wilson's sister—and her date, Andrew."

Blaine only barely managed to keep his mouth from falling open.

Tall, Bright, and Gorgeous. In the flesh. And as devastating as ever.

"Hello," he said brightly—and with an unmistakable British accent—taking Katelyn's hand. "I noticed you from across the room. Your dress is simply stunning."

"Well thank you, Jesse. It's so nice to meet you."

Jesse? _That_ was his name? He didn't _look _like a Jesse. And the _accent_. What the hell was that? Plus, what was he doing dating a guy that worked at an advertising firm? Conmen and thieves didn't _date_. Not _really_. So—oh. He was… _Oh_. He'd had the same idea Blaine had.

"Andrew," Jesse said, "I love your suit. Prada?"

He nodded, snapping back to attention. "Gorgeous, isn't it?"

Quirking his eyebrow, Jesse shuffled closer to his date and said pointedly, "Yes, well, it's last season. So I hope you got it for a _steal_."

Jackass.

"I think I look quite dashing really," Blaine defended himself. "I could make Aphrodite herself fall in love with me."

"Not if someone else got there first."

Blaine had just opened his mouth to say something else—although he hadn't decided what yet—when Wilson was there, curling a hand around Brandon's elbow. "Brandon, I hope you don't mind if I steal you away for a moment. We're all talking about the Thickman ads and we'd love to hear some of your ideas."

Brandon glanced at his date. "Jess?"

"Go impress them," he said, leaning in to kiss Brandon on the cheek. "I'm fine."

"I'll be back before you know it."

He wasn't gone for a second before Katelyn set her glass down on the bar and said, "If you'll excuse me, the lady's room is calling."

And then there were two.

They stood there for a moment, simply watching each other, sizing each other up. It wasn't awkward between them, but it would look strange to anyone near them—two men doing nothing but staring at each other while their dates were missing? It did things to a person's reputation.

"It's a nice night," Blaine said. "Join me on the balcony?"

He walked away before the other man could answer.

Eight months. It had been eight months since the night at the Hollingsworth estate—eight months since Blaine had lost the Aphrodite sculpture, since he'd met the other thief, since he'd turned further, and further away from the law. He'd promised himself something. As soon as his con on the Manchester firm was finished, he was going to be done. He was going to find an honest job, something that he liked, something where he could meet someone nice and settle down. He was already thirty. He was getting too old for the con game anyway.

"Katelyn is very pretty," Jesse said, leaning against the balcony railing next to Blaine.

"Her brother's hotter."

Jesse laughed. "I _knew_ it."

"Your date though—damn. He's _gorgeous_."

"He loves the accent."

"What's with that thing anyway?"

"It sells the part."

"Mind if I ask you your plan?" Blaine turned, facing him with a serious expression. "I have an in—a friendship with Wilson and a relationship with Katelyn—but what exactly is _your _scheme?"

"Brandon's going to be a partner. He'll have business transactions, things that he'll keep in briefcases or his office. All I have to do is pay him a little visit, get him _distracted_ enough that won't notice what I'm doing, steal the firm's account number, and I'm golden." He smirked. "Brandon's easy. He melts for the accent, he thinks I'm the hottest thing to ever grace the planet… And he's _fun_. I can't remember the last time I've had so much fun on a con."

"Maybe he's the love of your life," Blaine grumbled, facing the night sky once more.

"I'm a conman. Conmen don't fall in love. Plus I'm only 31. I've got loads of time."

Blaine shrugged. He'd fallen in love with Daniel when he was 21 and by then he'd already been scamming people out of their money for three years. Conmen could fall in love. They just didn't always have the opportunity to do so.

"I know. It _sounds_ old but I feel younger now than I did when I was twenty. I drink more wine, I have more sex, I steal more sculptures. It's the best life there is."

"Jesse isn't your real name, is it?"

"…no. I took it off the ex-boyfriend of a friend of mine."

"We might meet again. Especially if you're going to be around Brandon while I'm still at the firm. You might as well tell me your real one."

Jesse turned to him with an expression of disbelief and amusement. They stood up together, facing each other, and they were so close that Blaine had the sudden urge to kiss him for no other reason except that he wanted to. He wouldn't have actually done it but he didn't get the chance anyway.

"I," Jesse said in his accent again, "am Jesse Travers. I live in London, England, I was raised by my fantastic, loving parents, John and Amelia, and I am dating a charming man named Brandon Holt. Is there anything that sounds fake about me, _Andrew_?"

Blaine blinked. "So basically you're saying you'll show me yours if I show you mine?"

"Oh, please. I'm a little bit more resourceful than all that." With a wink, he headed back towards the main room. He didn't make it four steps however before he said, "Oh!" and spun on the spot. "By the way, Aphrodite looks great on my mantelpiece, _Mr_. _Anderson_."

Jesse had disappeared into the crowd by the time Blaine remembered how to breathe.

-0-

"'lo?" Daniel muttered, wiping sleep from his eyes.

"You can't seriously have been asleep. It's not even midnight yet."

"Blaine, some of us have jobs that they need to get to around seven in the morning." His voice was crackly and his body was exhausted but flopping back onto the pillows didn't do anything but hurt. He groaned before he could help it.

"What's wrong with you?"

"Jamie made me go hiking with him today. I'm sore in places I didn't even know existed."

"I'm sure he rewarded you very handsomely."

Grinning, Daniel rolled over to look at his fiancé, still fast asleep next to him. "Indeed he did."

"At least one of us is getting laid," Blaine sighed.

"If you just called to give your woe_-is-me-I'm-forever-alone-and-no-one-wants-to-fuck-me_ speech, I'm hanging up."

"I found the guy who has the sculpture and I kind of need you to talk me down off a metaphorical ledge right now."

Daniel sighed heavily. "Blaine."

"I know. Trust me." And he sounded like he did. He sounded tired mostly, but Daniel knew what that was with Blaine. It was frustration, guilt, anger—Blaine could feel a lot of things at once. He just wasn't always the best as interpreting his feelings. "How are Jamie and Jen?"

"He's fine and she's great. She came home from school yesterday, whining about wanting to get her ears pierced. Jamie told her we'd do it next year. For her birthday."

"Ah. Reward for hitting double digits?"

Daniel smiled. "You remember how old she is."

"Of course I do! I'm Uncle Blaine! I know everything about her."

"What's her middle name?"

"…Alice?"

"Mackenzie."

"Close enough."

"…I need you to promise me that you won't go after that sculpture, Blaine. Or the guy that took it. It doesn't mean anything to us. Not anymore."

Immediately, Daniel knew that that wasn't the right thing to say. "How _dare_ you say that Andrew doesn't mean anything," Blaine hissed. "Just because—"

"I didn't mean that and you know it. The sculpture can't do anything for you, Blaine. I'm not telling you that you should forget him because you _shouldn't_. But you also shouldn't hold on to something that won't bring him back. Now… Go to bed. You'll feel better when you wake up."

He didn't feel better the next morning. However, when he beat Jesse to the punch and managed to steal almost half of the Manchester fortune only two months later… _That_ made him happy. For a while.

**A/N: From here on, things gets much longer and more complicated, so I hope you bear with me. Next chapter, Artie, Quinn, and Puck will appear, and the team starts their long, drawn-out cons.**

**I would love if you would drop me a review!**

**Love,**

**E. M. Zeray**


	3. The Illusion Job

**A/N: It's been a while! Sorry about the wait, I hope you enjoy this chapter. The whole team comes together in this one to begin the first real con of the story, so the chapters are getting longer.**

They made one hell of a team. Him, Artie, Quinn, and Puck. They'd come together under the most unique of circumstances—to help someone, to save someone, by committing a handful of felonies—and then they'd stayed that way as word got out that that was what they did. Then they had clients, people that came to them to beg for help. They were the normal people, the little people, who were being squashed under the metaphorical boot of big, powerful companies and businessmen.

It had started with Puck. His real name was Noah Puckerman but nobody called him that unless they never wanted their body to be found. He and Artie had done a few jobs together before and while they were very talented at what they did—Puck with his fighting skills and Artie with his computers and smart phones and fancy devices—they weren't the best at strategy. They'd come to Blaine, who had started his criminal career at the ripe, young age of 18, with a few questions about how to break into a certain kind of security system. Blaine knew just the girl for the job.

Her name was Quinn. Plain and simple. No last name, no family, no past—just a pretty blonde with a sharp wit and talented fingers.

They went in together. There was an argument from the professional hitter at first—"Man, I work _alone_."—but Quinn had rattled off a dozen or so times in which he infamously hadn't done so and he'd closed his mouth.

When the job was done, Puck had confessed that it was just a warm up. He and Artie had a mutual friend, a woman named Lauren, that was in a bit of trouble. They'd stolen design plans for what looked like a high-tech bomb in order to help her. Blaine was smart enough to not press for more information.

But the seed had been planted. They worked well together. They were smart. They could read each other easily. And thus their team was born. Later, Blaine assumed that Lauren had been the one the spread the word about their mission to help those who couldn't help themselves but his suspicions were never confirmed nor denied.

That had been four months ago.

-0-

"Move," Puck grunted as he stormed past Blaine and into the apartment. Blaine's loft had become their headquarters. Artie had installed hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of equipment so that they could access whatever they needed and the whole team could see it, Quinn had set up schematics and password hacker codes in Blaine's study, and Puck had made himself at home with the food in Blaine's kitchen and the sports on Blaine's TV.

"I got new coms," Artie announced as he rolled into the main room from the study. "Designed them last month and finally put them together. New tech. Not only can they pick up what you're saying and relay it to the rest of us, they get the other side of the conversation too. No more repeating conversations like confused idiots."

Their coms, short for communicators, were little earbuds—clear except for blue and red wiring—that fit comfortably in their ears and allowed them to, well, communicatewith each other while up to a mile apart.

"I also figured out a way to lengthen the distance. We're up to 3.5 miles, maybe more."

_3.5_ miles apart, apparently.

"I also made some extras since Puck is prone to ripping his out and stomping on it when any of us try to tell him what to do."

"I don't need your voice in my head, man," Puck growled. "Blaine, do we have a job or not?"

Quinn decided to make her entrance, dropping down gracefully from Blaine's second floor through the small gap of the spiral staircase. "We do," she said. "Dr. Mary Gate is waiting downstairs in the bar for Blaine. I have a feeling it's going to be a good one."

"What makes you say that?" Blaine asked her.

"It's the first one where we'll actually be saving _lives_."

Blaine's stomach tightened. "Great."

-0-

He drank. A lot. He had for years. He'd been a kind of adorable drunk in high school and then a loud, partying drunk in college. He'd given up wild, raging drinking sessions with buddies once Andrew had been born, settling for wine and champagne and the occasional glass of bourbon with his boss at TLA Accounting—the firm he'd worked for once he'd settled down with Daniel and given up his criminal life style—but after… After Andrew's death and his subsequent breakup with Daniel, he'd taken to drinking like a fish.

The team knew of course. He wasn't proud of it, especially since it had been the cause of more than one botched con in a single month, but they never said anything about it. They would have to eventually. One day, Blaine could end up putting one of them in serious danger. But that day wasn't this one so he wasn't going to worry about it.

"Scotch," he told the bartender when he sat down next to the redhead. Mary Gate. She was a scientist for Anna's Home Cooked Meals, a food company that distributed frozen meals all over the country, and she was in a lot of trouble. Just like they all were. She was petite, slender, slightly pale but not unhealthy-looking. She was beautiful. And Blaine immediately found her to be extremely kind as well.

"About a month ago, one of our quality control inspectors found salmonella bacteria on a shipment of frozen dinners." She fidgeted, but didn't look away from Blaine. "My company—Anna's Home Cooked Meals—we make food, we sell food, and they're completely ignoring the responsibility they have… It turns out the _entire _frozen food division was contaminated. Our vice president, Marcus Patterson, decided not to do anything about it. I—I wanted to bring you, um, evidence but I—well, when I went up to the server room," she said meekly, "to try to gather the files, you know, Mr. Patterson caught me. He had the head of security with him, Mr. Wilde, and I just… Panicked. I got out but only barely. They're going to fire me."

"What happened when he found you?"

Mary's hand shook when she reached for her drink. After tossing the rest of it back, she shuddered and said, "Mr. Patterson told me that there had been illegal access of company files over the last month—the research I was doing, of course. I found, um, this study the company had done on food-borne pathogens and their numbers on any lawsuit they would face and then how much it would cost to pull back the frozen food already on the market and I just…" She swallowed tightly, shaking her head. "They found that it would be more affordable to pay off the suits than to take back the food. They're going to let people die, Mr. Anderson."

"Hey, hey, hey." He reached for her instinctively and she went to him, folding herself into his chest and burying her face in his shoulder. "No, they won't. We'll stop them, don't you worry." His hand came up to rub her back and she jerked away from him immediately, settling back into her own seat with wide eyes and flushed cheeks.

"I'm sorry—that was inappropriate of me."

"Dr. Gate—"

"Mary. Please."

Blaine smiled. "And you call me Blaine. Don't be embarrassed. What you're doing is very brave. Very admirable."

"You… You really think so?" She peaked up at him through her eyelashes, her head tilted down and her blush deepening.

Blaine started to speak again when he realized that… She was _flirting_. It was his turn to blush—because he'd never really grown out of that, especially when women were involved—and he nodded immediately. "Yes. And don't worry. We'll take care of everything. Promise."

She laid his hand over his, no longer timid but actually rather bold in the way that she stared at him while cooing, "I can't thank you enough, Blaine."

"It's what I do," he said, taking her hand and squeezing it sincerely. He'd found that physical contact built a lot of trust with women. It was just rather unfortunate that they often took it to mean something else. "Tell me more."

"Well they broke into my apartment. I'd managed to save some earlier files onto my hard drive and the whole place was trashed but that was the only thing taken."

"A warning," Blaine mused.

"Exactly. I found Patterson's report that estimated how many people would die. He looked at the numbers and decided it was an acceptable number of deaths. _Acceptable_ number—lives lost over food. So supermarkets are selling Anna's products that will _kill_ people."

"We won't let that happen. I told you, Mary—trust us."

"I do, Blaine. I trust you."

He smiled. "Good. So Patterson—he's just the VP, right? What about the CEO?"

"Mr. Hawkins. He doesn't know anything about it. That's why I was gathering some of the report on my hard drive—to give it to him. Or the FDA. Anyone who would listen."

"Okay. I'm gonna go brief the team. And we'll get back to you. Promise."

Mary squeezed his hand. "Thank you, Blaine."

-0-

"It's easy," Artie explained, typing something onto his keyboard and watching the building schematics twirl on the six large screens he had placed together in Blaine's living room. "We send Puck in as the pizza delivery guy. Pizza has a camera in it, of course. Once he's up there, I talk him through the security system and he downloads the files. Piece of cake. He walks out like he never existed."

Blaine nodded. "Perfect. Except for the fact that every single piece of everything you just said is completely wrong."

Everyone stared.

Standing up, Blaine twirled the pencil in his hand absentmindedly. "But I'll humor you. Let's say we sent Puck in. Have Quinn standing guard outside maybe?" At Artie's grunt, Blaine nodded again. "Yes, that's how you'd do it, I think. So, Puck's inside. He walks up to the front desk where a pretty intern is on the phone or typing away at a computer. You ramble some random fact you know about her because you're a computer genius that actually just checked her Facebook account and Puck snaps at you about your voice in his head. Puck leans against the counter, grins at her, flirts a little bit, and sure, he's definitely in.

"But then the goons come along. Twenty security men in the main lobby, more on each floor. Artie could get him through scanners and keypads and normally he's pretty good with the whole punching thing but twenty guys? With guns? Not exactly a fair fight. But even before the goons attack, they take you through the security entrance where they check your name at the pizza company you work for and scan your pizza with some x-ray thing that they have past the lobby." He picked up the remote next to Artie and rotated the picture of the building. "There," he said, pointing. "Metal detectors, scanners, goons—and then the pat down when you leave the building is even more extensive. Puck couldn't make it out of there if he had ten more arms.

"And then the exterior, assuming Quinn has her climbing gear on her at the time, which she wouldn't if she was just standing guard despite that fact that she likes to bring it everywhere. The first ten floors are an easy free climb for her but the rest of them—slip 'n slide." He dropped the remote on the couch next to Puck. "Then there's Artie's hack. A place like this has firewalls built and protected by the NSA, the CIA, federal agencies and computer nerds you've never even heard of. And they will destroy you. So, no, we don't run recon on Anna's from the inside—not with one our members. And we don't move until I figure out the plan. Any questions, children?"

Silence.

"That's what I thought."

"Blaine," Artie said finally, "it's a food company. It's not like they're making weapons."

"I used to do the books for a lot of companies like Anna's and I know some things. I had friends in insurance, friends that were lawyers—anyone who gets their hands on the company's food patents could cost them billions of dollars. They don't take any risks."

"Put my life in danger," Puck grumbled. "You know what, Artie? Next time, I'll sit behind a computer and you can go in as the pizza guy."

"Hey, I was gathering crucial information from behind that computer!"

"Well then why don't you share it with us?"

"All you had to do was ask." He rolled himself closer to the TVs , the remote in hand. One click and an outside view of the headquarters was on the screen. "Anna's Home Cooked Meals is the fifth largest food production company in the world. This is the vice president, Marcus Patterson." Another click, Marcus was up on the screen. Middle-aged, balding, unimpressive. Angry eyes. "According to Dr. Gate, Marcus is trying to cover up the salmonella found in frozen dinners so that the division doesn't have to pay out for the recall."

Blaine nodded. "So what we have to do is get Patterson's report and make it public. It's on the servers—how do we get into the building?"

Artie beamed proudly and reached for the keyboard. A second later, there were a million different emails popping up on the screen. "You underestimate me. I actually kind of already sent in a little bug of mine to do some digging. Mailed a smart phone with an extended battery to an employee on vacation so the box sits in the mailroom and scans for wireless and Bluetooth access points. Their internal servers are locked down tight so all I could get were some employee emails but I've been flipping through them. They're juicy."

"Office politics?" Blaine asked.

"You don't know the half of it. Shannon and Chris from marketing are fighting with Laura from ads. Janice and Raymond are sending particularly naughty emails that someone should seriously encrypt, and everyone is complaining about the state of the company thing tomorrow."

Light bulb. "That's it. That's our way in."

Artie arched an eyebrow at Blaine. "What is?"

"The state of the company meeting."

The other three exchanged glances. "What's that?"

"Oh, right, I keep forgetting none of you have ever had a normal job." He cleared his throat and leaned back. "When I used to work for TLA—which was the longest 6 years of my life—we'd do this all the time. The companies—big companies—they make their employees sit for an entire day and listen to these boring speeches, lame entertainment, bad food."

"Yuck," Quinn said. "I'm glad we don't live in the real world."

"And it's mandatory," Blaine went on. "It's only time when all of the employees are away from their desks at once."

Artie nodded. "So we go in as the entertainment. Catering would be done in-house with a food company. What do they normally do for things like this?"

Blaine grinned. "I'm willing to bet anything that Anna's Meals has a magician."

"Anything?" asked Quinn.

"Down, girl." He pointed towards the screen and asked Artie to sort through more emails to see if he could find out who the entertainment was and how they could replace it. "The rest of you, disperse. We start tomorrow."

Normally, that would have been the end of it. They would have done as Blaine had said, disappeared into their corners and let him wander to his kitchen to pour a glass of scotch to drink while he glared sourly at nothing but instead…

"This is wrong."

They all turned to look at Puck. He'd been uncharacteristically silent through most of the talk of the con but he apparently had something to say.

"We don't have a grifter."

Blaine arched an eyebrow. "What?"

"We have me, the hitter, Quinn, the thief, Artie, the hacker, and you, the mastermind—but we don't have a grifter." He looked up at Blaine like he just wasn't getting it. "All of the best teams are five-man teams. You can't double up at the grifter either because we'd be low on characters. Quinn's getting better but she still freaks out when she has to act, Artie always oversells the part plus we're kind of limited with him unless the role calls for a dude in a wheelchair, and well…me. We need another guy."

"Do you have someone in mind?" Blaine inquired, trying not to sound angry.

"Give me twenty-four hours. Tomorrow, when you and Artie present the plan, I'll have us a grifter."

-0-

Blaine wasn't sure what he was expecting. Puck was pretty specific with his different word choices—guy or dude versus chick or lady—so he was pretty sure that the Mohawk-ed muscle would be bringing a man, someone that he had in mind beforehand. And there was that. How long had Puck wanted to bring someone else onto the team? Why hadn't he said anything before then?

But still, Puck's plans aside, he was kind of right. They did need a grifter, whether Blaine wanted to acknowledge it or not, and a five-man team would be better for them. Maybe it would be the beginning of something better for them.

He, Quinn, and Artie were waiting in Blaine's living room with the plans. Assuming Puck's grifter came through, they were set and ready to go as soon as they coordinated. The original entertainment, a deadbeat magician on probation for sexual assault, was easily shoved aside as soon as Quinn cried wolf. Blaine, aka: Gregory Styles, Illusionist Extraordinaire, was set to perform at the state of the company meeting in his place the very next day.

Artie had props and schematics ready to go, a plan in place, and there was no way—knock on wood—that anything would go sour. They were prepared.

Until Puck walked in the door.

Although, to be fair, it wasn't that their whole _plan _fell apart when Puck walked in. It was mostly just that Blaine's brain threatened to slip out of his ears and he actually dropped his drink on his hardwood floors when he noticed who was behind Puck.

"This is Elijah," Puck announced with a grin. "We have a mutual friend and I heard he was in town and he's willing to help us."

"Provided," the tall man said smoothly, "that I get a cut of the profits."

"We don't keep money from clients," Blaine said immediately. It was instinct. He hadn't even realized he'd said it until Elijah—what the hell was his actual name anyway?—zeroed in on him.

He grinned. "Oh, Mr. Anderson," he greeted. "How very nice to see you again. You're on this little team?"

"I run this team."

"I should have figured. You've always seemed very Robin Hood."

Artie cleared his throat. "You two know each other?"

"I know a _Jesse_ that looks remarkably like _Elijah _here," Blaine said bitingly. "But I can't say I've ever met_ this_ character."

With a devilish glint in his eye, Kurt took another step into the room and crossed his arms over his chest. "Last time I saw you, you were going by Andrew."

"That was one con."

"Extensive, though. And impressive. I was honestly quite shocked you managed to pull it off."

"I'm a pretty charming guy, if I do say so myself. You do all right, I noticed. Did you break poor Brandon's heart then? When you disappeared?"

But Elijah didn't get the chance to answer. Instead, he was interrupted by an awed voice breathing out, "You're Kurt Hummel."

The man—Joshua, Elijah, Kurt, whoever—looked over at Quinn abruptly and took a half step backwards as if shocked to hear the name.

"I—I'm sorry, I just—_you_. Well, _one_ of you—your identities. I—Mr. Hummel, I'm a huge fan of your, um, alleged work." Quinn must have gotten up off the couch at some point between Puck walking in the door and the new name being spoken aloud to the room because she was on two feet as she strode across the room and reached to shake the newcomer's hand. "The Aphrodite sculpture last year, the Monet the year before that, and the scam you ran in London in '09—absolutely brilliant."

He blushed slightly. "Well thank you."

"I'm Quinn."

"Not the same Quinn that robbed the Brookeman Gallery in LA last year?"

She beamed proudly. "Oh, the very same."

"I'd love to take a look at your collection one day."

"I'd love to show it to you."

"Wait," Artie interrupted. "So Quinn knows him 'cause he's famous in her circles, Blaine knows him because they ran into each other on a con once, and Puck knows him because of a friend?"

"My brother actually," Elijah—Kurt?—offered. "Puck and I met in high school. When we moved on to bigger and better things, we made the mutual agreement to help each other out every now and then."

"As long as Finn never knew about it." Puck winked. Blaine assumed that Finn was the brother.

"So what name are you going by now then?" Artie asked.

He looked around at the four others in the room and shrugged minimally. "It's been a while since anybody called me Kurt. I think I'd like to hear that for a change."

"All right, Kurt. Take a seat and we'll tell you about the con."

-0-

Blaine really wasn't crazy about this. Sure, they had a plan and they were trained professionals but…with a new guy, things were different. They had to adjust to each other's styles. Even with the others it had taken a few jobs to get everything right and Blaine didn't want to throw away a job as important as this one on a friend of Puck's, no matter how stunningly attractive or ridiculously talented that friend was.

"You look very dapper, Mr. Anderson," Quinn said with a wink.

"It's all for the part, darling."

He was dressed in a black suit, crisp white shirt underneath and dorky polka-dotted bowtie to top it all off. He had a red handkerchief stuck in his front jacket pocket, a top-hat perched over his curls, and two playing cards stuck in the silk that circled the base of the hat. Card tricks were easy. Magic was easy. It was just like a con—a distraction, an illusion, a simple _look over there while I do my thing_ and the audience was fooled. No questions asked.

The first step, the hardest one really, was getting the props—full of rope, Artie's equipment, and other things Quinn thought they might need—past the scanners. Blaine was fairly certain he could handle it with ease but when Kurt had laughed and challenged his smugness, they'd agreed to a competition.

"I'll go in first, follow after a moment, and then we'll be heading inside with no problem," he said with a glow of self-satisfaction.

"We'll see, Anderson. We'll see."

Getting inside the building was as easy as walking in the front door. However, before he even got to the front desk, he was met with the stern, dark face of Mr. Dennis Wilde, head of security.

He flicked his card—well, his alias' card—at Mr. Wilde and said, "Gregory Styles."

Wilde grunted. "You're the magician."

"Illusionist," he corrected with a sensitive air. "Magicians do kid's parties. I do Fortune 500 companies." Glancing behind him, he found Kurt, Puck, and Quinn rolling in equipment. Too soon. Kurt had such little faith. "Right this way, gang!"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Wilde said. "Who are these people?"

"This is my team, of course. Mr. Wilde, I believe you spoke with my manager." He gestured to Kurt who gave a little wave. "Neil Carver. This is my illusions designer, Tony Allen, and my lovely assistant, Lucille. This won't be a problem, will it?"

"Nothing gets in or out of the building without being scanned."

Blaine scoffed. "These crates contain my illusions—my life. I'm not gonna reveal my secrets."

Wilde shrugged and stood his ground. Literally. Spreading his legs slightly and holding up his hands, he said, "That's not my problem."

"You seem like a reasonable man—don't you want to enjoy the magic? Because if you ruin my illusions—"

"Buddy, you could the personal magician of the freakin' president and you still wouldn't be let in without a scan. So drop it."

It was Kurt's turn to try. "Fine," he said with a huff. "Listen, Mr. Wilde, I'm sure we could figure something out because if not, we're leaving. And if I'm not mistaken, I'm rather sure your boss, Mr. Hawkins, would very much like this event to proceed. So unless you want to be the sole person that ruined his lovely event, why don't you stand aside and let us do our jobs?"

-0-

The meeting was being held in the presentation room, a large auditorium-like section of the building with a welcoming stage and thousands of seats. Backstage, Blaine knocked on the door of his Box of Mystery before opening it and helping Artie out.

"Sorry about that," he said. "Good thing you're not claustrophobic, huh?"

"I've had worse road trips, man." He rolled himself towards Quinn, picking up a bouquet of fake flowers and examining them. "So how exactly do you plan on pulling this off?"

"Oh, being a magician is the next best thing to being a con artist. They're both all about misdirection"—he took the baton Kurt was holding with an easy grin and tossed it in the air before catching it deftly—"and control."

"Artie," Kurt said, "let's hear the plan again."

"Show opens with our friend Marcus Patterson delivering the state of the company speech. It's scheduled to last about an hour giving Puck, Kurt, and Quinn enough time to go down to the server room, hack the servers, download the report, and get back downstairs. I'll make sure Blaine doesn't actually have to go on as the magician and then we get out here. Fast."

When the room was packed and the show was about to begin, it was Kurt's part. Quinn and Puck were headed upstairs but, like with most high-security buildings, they needed an ID to access stairwells or elevators.

One of Artie's favorite hacks was one that took barely any energy. He'd created an app to detect RFID signals from corporate badges—the little strips inside ID badges that gave them clearance into anything that required a swipe. They were wireless non-contact systems that used radio-frequency fields to transfer data from a tag—on the card—to the receiver—in this case, Puck's phone. As soon as Kurt's brand new phone from Artie was close enough to an exec's badge, Puck would receive the card data and gain access to anywhere in the building he wanted.

"Mr. Hawkins," Kurt said, approaching the stout man in the aisle. "Hello, I'm Neil Carver—I work with Gregory. The magician."

The elder man's eyebrows flew up and he grinned. "Ah, yes! Hello, Neil!"

It took barely five minutes. A small conversation about the company, questions that he passed off as curiosity for Gregory to work into his act, and then… Puck and Quinn were in the elevator and riding up to the server room.

"Guys," Blaine said, "Patterson's not here."

"Well what happens if the main speaker doesn't show?" Puck asked.

"I think the entertainment takes his place."

"That doesn't work very well for us, now does it?" Kurt squirmed slightly next to Blaine. "Okay, we can figure this out. You can be a real magician, right?"

"Quinn's not here to be my assistant and I can't drag Artie out on stage with me. Wilde would throw a fit since he didn't see him at the door and our cover would be blown."

Puck whistled sharply. "We're at the server room. Patterson's inside."

Blaine swore. "Deleting the files?"

"Affirmative."

"The CEO has a private computer," Kurt offered before anyone could freak out. "It's a one-way connection. He can see what other people are saving, but no one can see his. If Patterson wants all the files gone, he'll have to get into Hawkins' office."

Puck and Quinn shared a glance. "All right," Quinn said. "We're on our way up there now. Patterson will have to go downstairs eventually. He'll most likely head that way before sneaking up the other computer. Right?"

"It's not what I would do. With the boss mingling dozens of floors away from his office, it's the perfect time. Go now, get the copies quick, and get out as fast as you can."

Blaine cleared his throat. "Um, I give the orders."

"Calm down, Anderson. I'm not trying to steal your job."

Puck grunted, half laugh, half scoff. "Kurt is a lot more calming than you, Blaine. He's quick and to the point while you have to explain every little thing. We're not children. We'd been doing this for a while before you came along."

"Puck," Blaine started to say, but he was cut off with Quinn's voice, slightly out of breath, saying, "Stop bickering. We're on our way to Hawkins' office."

"There'll probably be a few problems," Kurt said before catching his lower lip between his teeth. It was the first time Blaine had ever seen him nervous. "Maybe a retina scanner."

"I can hack a retina scanner," Artie chirped. "Easy."

"We can worry about that later—Hawkins is on his way onto the stage." Blaine cleared his throat anxiously and tugged on his bowtie. "Let's hope he doesn't introduce me. I haven't actually done a magic act since elementary school."

Hawkins, as it turned out, did not introduce Blaine and instead apologized for Patterson's absence before beginning to deliver his own speech. Half the audience was asleep by his second sentence.

"Hey, Artie, can you hack a fingerprint scanner?"

"Nah. But if Kurt wants to go back to Mr. Hawkins or his assistant and get one of them to place their thumb on the screen of his phone, you can peal it off with my—"

Blaine coughed an interruption. "Artie, explain it as quickly as you can and use as few technical words as possible. Kurt, go find Hawkins' assistant. Flirt if you have to."

"She's not gonna buy that I'm into her. I'm kind of the poster boy for homosexuality."

"Kurt. _Go._"

He harrumphed. "_Fine_. Don't have to be so _bossy_."

He did as he was asked and then got instructions from Artie on what to do. With some special paper, the weirdest brush Kurt had ever seen, and a gummy bear, they were inside the office.

Kurt slid into the desk chair, fingers poised over the keys, when he heard the beeping. A blue square appeared over the screen.

_**DELETED**_.

His eyes went wide. "That doesn't look good."

"What?" Artie said immediately. "Talk to me."

"Patterson's pretty good with tech. He hacked Hawkins' computer remotely from the server room."

Blaine shook his head, his eyes wide. "No. No, this can't be happening."

"I have him on security cameras. He's going back downstairs, probably leaving the building." Artie groaned softly. "Guys, it's just… It's over. They're all gone. Completely."

"_No_."

"Blaine, there's no 'no', okay? We _lost_."

"_No_, we didn't." He took a deep breath. "Quinn, you got your gear?"

"Of course," she said. "I carry it everywhere."

"Good. Get downstairs, we're going classic."

"Pick pocket the phone?"

"Pick pocket the phone."

She beamed. "I love scaling down buildings."

-0-

"Why did we steal the phone?" Kurt asked later when they were all gathered outside, watching the front door of the building.

"You'll see."

Sure enough, there was a call coming in on Patterson's phone minutes later.

"Hello, Mr. Wilde," Blaine said calmly. "I'd greatly appreciate it if you could hand the phone to your friend Mr. Patterson."

There was silence, fumbling, and then a gruff and winded, "Who the hell is this?"

"Someone who knows what you did, Mr. Patterson."

"And what would that be?"

"I hardly think you're dumb enough to forget. Of course, I've been wrong before." Patterson was right outside the building, huddled with Wilde and two other security men towards the door. He was folded in on himself, his shoulders hunched, his fears evident. He knew what was happening. "You do know what having your phone means, don't you, Mr. Patterson? It means I have all of the company's food patents that you have downloaded. _And _you know how much those are worth. Those patents represent hundreds of millions of dollars of your company's present and future earnings. I wonder how happy your boss would be if, oh, I don't know, they were leaked?"

"…what do you want?"

"This is a very easy thing, Mr. Patterson. I'm sure even you can handle it. Are you ready to hear it?" Silence. Thick, bitter silence that Blaine grinned at, reveled in, and he almost laughed with joy—would have if Kurt hadn't been watching him so attentively. "I want you to pull the entire frozen food division from the market."

"What?!" Patterson hissed. "You have to kidding me! Do you understand how much that would cost the company?!"

"You'll also issue a formal apology and a letter of resignation. Really, Mr. Patterson, you have no choice in the matter. I'll return your phone to you when the deed is done."

He hung up, slipped the phone into his pocket, and turned to his team.

"Not bad for a day's work, eh?"

Puck smirked. "Man, even when things go wrong for you they go right. How the fuck does that happen?"

"Just lucky, I guess."

"Or," Kurt said. "Misdirection."

Blaine chuckled. "That too."

Quinn bumped her shoulder into Kurt's. "So, Kurt. You've seen us in action. What do you think?"

He arched an eyebrow. "You guys are good. The best. I shudder to think what you could do with more time and prep. For some of the curveballs we got today, you guys really pulled this thing off."

"So?"

"So…what?"

"So what about joining us?"

"Oh, Quinn." He took her hand, squeezing it gently. "A delightful invitation, really. But this job—this one job—was my charitable contribution of the year. Now…" With a smile, he looked around the circle. Artie in his chair, looking smug with the success of the con, Puck with his arms crossed over his chest and his expression as happy as Kurt had ever seen it, and Blaine, who stared back at him with an even gaze, awaiting the rest of his answer. "I go back to my selfish ways." He tossed a quick wink at Blaine and, as he walked away, called, "If you need me again, please hesitate before calling!"

**A/N: Hope you enjoyed! Don't forget to review!**


	4. The Lonely Hearts Job

**A/N: Part 4! The rating goes up in this one at the end so be warned—thar be smut ahead! I hope you enjoy!**

He was never going to drink again. Ever. He wouldn't. Honestly. He was going sober—cutting himself off—because he could never, _would_ never, do that again.

It was tradition for Daniel to visit New York on the anniversary of Andrew's death and for Blaine to go to Chicago on Andrew's birthday. The year before, on the night that Blaine had almost stolen the Aphrodite sculpture, his ex had been tied up with work, unable to make it. And so they'd skipped it. But this year Danny was there, sitting next to him on a barstool, scotch in his hand, and he wouldn't stop groaning.

"—and so we had this great big fight! And it wasn't like I really did anything _wrong_, you know? It had just been _building _for months and _months_—living together can really do that to a couple. You and I used to fight _all the time_. But Jen was at a sleepover and I got home late and Jamie was just bitching to me and we exploded!"

"And you left."

"And I left." He scoffed. "I still don't know if that was really a good idea."

Daniel was handsome. Classically handsome like a Disney prince. Like Cinderella's prince, Blaine thought. They had made fun of each other once upon a time for their likeness to characters. Blaine's to Aladdin, and Daniel's to Charming. It had been fun. Back then.

The night progressed and they drank more, leaned into each other, laughed, and made increasingly poor decisions. That, of course, eventually resulted in them going back to Blaine's apartment and Daniel leaving the next morning with a hickey, a headache, and the feeling of guilty dread twisting his stomach into a knot.

They hadn't spoken since then except for a quick apology text from Blaine that was left unanswered.

There were other loose ends in Chicago, though. Specifically, Jeffrey Hartford.

-0-

"Who can tell me about Bernini?" Blaine asked his team, pacing in front of the screens in his loft. Quinn's hand shot up immediately. The other two stared at him blankly. "Gian Lorenzo Bernini was an Italian artist who sculpted, in 1622, the great _Apollo and Daphne_, as well as a handful of other famous pieces. He painted, was an architect, a brilliant mind and talented soul—the leading sculptor of the age."

"Cool," Puck grunted. "So what?"

"So, a year before he began the sculpture that would make him unbelievably famous, he sculpted a miniature Daphne for practice. It's practically identical to the larger one. But it was stolen from its resting place in Italy three years ago."

Quinn arched an eyebrow. "I didn't know that."

"No, no one did. Because the owner wasn't supposed to have it. He never reported it stolen and it was assumed missing." Blaine grinned. "I have it."

"_You_?"

"It was my first job after I left accounting. I really wanted to get out of the US for a while and Italy—well, I'd never been so I went. And I stole the sculpture."

Artie coughed. "Which brings us back to Puck's question. So what?"

"We con bad people who have done bad things, right?"

"Right."

Blaine turned towards the screens and pressed a button the remote he was holding. A picture of an elderly gentleman, white hair, wrinkles, pale blue eyes, appeared on the screen. "Jeffrey Hartford took over QEI Insurance fifteen years ago. Ever since, he's thoroughly stalled medical insurance claim investigations in order to deny clients their privileges. Hundreds of people—maybe thousands—have died."

"Who's the client?" Quinn asked.

Blaine hesitated only a moment before saying, "Me. A good friend of mine passed away because of Hartford. And I… I want him to lose his credibility. I want his clients to go running, every piece he's ever insured to be put under investigation. I want him to go away for a very, very long time."

Puck chuckled. "Yeah. We can do that."

They had a plan. A good plan. But it was only a week later that it all fell apart.

"So we've got the professor, the seller, the behind-the-scenes hacker, and the bodyguard." Quinn blinked down at their plans. Blaine could see the wheels turning in her head. "We need an art verifier. As the professor, I wouldn't be qualified, not for that. And we need someone to verify it without word getting back to Italy that it's in the US. Anyone who knows art knows about Bernini's lost miniature—Hartford wouldn't be allowed to buy the piece."

"You're saying we need another man," Blaine said.

"Precisely. Artie's more comfortable in the van with his smart phones and Puck can't play a character _and_ be back up. We don't work that way." Quinn cleared her throat delicately. "I, um, do have someone in mind; in case you were interested."

"No way," Blaine said immediately. "No way in hell. He's egotistical, he's annoying, he's _impossible_ to work with—"

"He's smart, Blaine. And we need him."

"You heard him. He won't work with us again—not if there isn't something in it for him."

Quinn shrugged. "When we go back to retrieve the piece, we let him have his pick of the things in the restoration room."

"…_fine_. Call him."

-0-

QEI Insurance, with its headquarters in Chicago, was owned by Jeffrey Hartford, a man well into his sixties who enjoyed fine art and lots of money. His company held, every year, a gala in a local museum. It was good for funding, good for the museum, and good for QEI's clients. Each piece in the show, which ran for about a month, was owned by a client of QEI's or by Hartford himself. This meant he would be having a fairly large party about a month before the event. He'd talk art with the clients, give people free booze, and it was a night for him to do what he did best: lie.

Their plan had been to enter the gala with the purpose of selling Bernini's miniature to Hartford. Quinn was going in first, as their esteemed New York professor, along Blaine as the seller, using his real name in the hopes that Hartford would remember him.

But Quinn was right. They'd need someone to verify the piece, someone who Quinn could recommend and bring in a few days after the party. And it couldn't be either Puck or Artie.

"You want me to be some stuffy art snob for an evening so that you can con this guy into buying a genuine Bernini?" Kurt crossed his arms and leaned against Blaine's kitchen counter. "Why?"

"Hartford has millions of dollars worth of art in the museum's restoration room right now, just ripe for the taking. You help us sell the piece to him, help Quinn get into the room, and you can take anything you want."

Kurt's eyes widened marginally. "Oh, really?"

Blaine nodded. "Really."

"Puck said you wanted to ruin this guy's reputation. How will taking one sculpture fix that?"

"Replace it with a fake. Every single one of the pieces he's insured over his fifteen years with the company will be investigated. He's supposed to know what he's doing. Not buy fake pieces from con artists."

"All right. I'm in. Tell me about the restoration room."

Quinn took Kurt's arm, leading him to the center of the loft and seating him on a couch. She twirled the remote between her fingers before bringing up dozens of pictures of various pieces of art. Their strategizing and drooling went on for a while whilst the other men sat by and watched. Eventually, Kurt said, in a thin, awed voice, "_That_."

"What?" Blaine asked, curious.

"It's a Picasso. A sculpture he did in 1901. It was lost for ages and… And there it is. He has it?"

Quinn pressed a few buttons and brought up a document. "No. It belongs to a client."

"You want that?" Blaine asked. "It's hideous."

"It's _perfect._"

"Fine. Take it. That'll be even better, having a piece that doesn't belong to him be a fake." Blaine nodded delightedly to himself. "Yeah. Puck can craft up a quick fake to replace it with before we leave—"

"I happen to already have one," Kurt interrupted. "At home. Picasso is one of my favorites so I, um, _naturally_, wanted to try my hand at his forgery and it went pretty well. It almost looks real."

"All right. We'll bring it when we go, keep it in the van. We're ready." He sighed heavily before looking up at his team. "Let's go steal over 10 million dollars worth of art."

-0-

It had been a while since he'd been back in Chicago for more than a day. He'd spent more than ten years of his life there, going to college, living with Daniel—they had been some of the best years of his life. But he wasn't sorry, not completely anyway, that he'd left them behind.

Blaine didn't like Jeffrey Hartford very much. He'd met him a few times before, years earlier, when Daniel had worked for him. Daniel, as a junior partner at his law firm, was up close and personal with their clients and very often had dinner and drinks with Hartford during which Blaine and Hartford's wife were in attendance.

It wasn't that Hartford was a particularly nasty guy as far as personality went. Actually he was rather charming. The problem, in fact, was with his company's policy against uninvestigated claims.

Before Hartford had taken over, the only claims to be investigated were theft and a few other specialties. Medical insurance was given at the drop of the hat, the previous owner more concerned with saving lives than with saving artifacts. Hartford was different. And when Blaine had gone to him to pay for Andrew's treatment, Hartford had said no. He had stalled until the very last possible moment. He had let Andrew die.

Then Daniel had made partner later and then was even more involved with Hartford. The only saving grace in Blaine's mind was that Daniel wouldn't be at that party. He wouldn't have that distraction. It was about a sale, a practically flawless sculpture, and millions of dollars. Nothing else.

A week before the event, Quinn introduced herself to Hartford as Professor Erin Harper, a renowned art history teacher from New York. They'd struck up a conversation about Bernini just as the team had planned and then, Blaine was in play.

"Come to the party," Hartford insisted eagerly. "And bring your friend. I'd love to talk about Bernini with you."

So they were there, in the courtyard of the museum, mingling with various wealthy, attractive people, while Kurt, Artie, and Puck were sitting in the back of the van, listening to the coms and staring at security cameras.

"I'm bored," Kurt announced. "When do I get to put on a fancy suit and play smart?"

"Tomorrow," Quinn told him. "I promise."

He heaved a heavy sigh. "And until then, I'm stuck in the back of a smelly van with Mohawk and Wheels."

"Hey," Artie protested. "This van smells like hard work."

"Hard work smells disgusting."

"Shut up," Blaine hissed through his teeth. "I can't think with you arguing. Hartford's over there, we're going over to introduce ourselves so stay quiet."

Kurt huffed in response.

Hartford couldn't quite place Blaine at first, even when he'd admitted to being a former client. But it was just as well. He just wanted to talk about the art.

"Bernini is, without a doubt, one of my favorite sculptors. I have his _Apollo and Daphne_ on loan from Italy for the gala." Hartford beamed proudly. "The two pieces together—people will never stop talking."

"That's precisely what we hoped for, sir."

"Of course, we'll need to get the piece verified."

"I have a friend that can do that for us, Mr. Hartford," Quinn said. "Very esteemed—he does appraisals all over the east coast but he's in Chicago next week. I'd be happy to contact him."

"That, my dear," said Hartford with a leer, "would be lovely."

Blaine was just about to add something else when he heard it.

"Blaine?"

It was instinctual to look. So he did so, turned around and faced the voice and, subsequently, the body it belonged to. When he did, his heart lurched into his throat. His voice was weak when he said, in awe, "Danny."

Because that was who was in front of him. Dressed to the nines in a stylish black suit, a champagne flute in his left hand and his right stuck in his pocket—his hair was styled, his tie perfect, and Blaine's mouth went a little dry.

"Who the hell is Danny?" Artie asked through the coms.

Before Blaine could even think about answering, Jeffrey stepped forward and clapped Blaine on the shoulder. "Of course! I knew you looked familiar!"

Quinn, at Jeffrey's side, blinked confusedly. "You two know each other?"

Daniel nodded, a subtle smile on his lips. "We do."

"Professor Erin Harper, this is Daniel Holden." Jeffrey gestured between Quinn and Daniel and they shook hands immediately as the older gentleman went on. "His law firm represents the company."

"Nice to meet you," Daniel offered.

"He's also Mr. Anderson's ex-husband."

Quinn's grip tightened immediately before falling away as if she'd been scalded. Her jaw clenched and her shoulders tensed and she said, "Oh, how perfectly awkward."

Daniel chuckled good-naturedly. "Hardly. Blaine and I are friends, aren't we?"

Blaine nodded curtly. "I didn't think you were going to be here tonight."

"You know I work for Mr. Hartford. Which brings up the question, what are _you_ doing here tonight?"

"We're talking art for the gala," Quinn said, pointedly ignoring the look Blaine gave her at the interruption. "I have a piece in my collection that I believed Mr. Hartford might want and Mr. Anderson and I work together sometimes so he offered to help me make the sale."

"That's our Blaine. Always a giver." He winked slyly at Quinn before asking, "What are you selling? Anything I'd know?"

"What's going on?" Puck growled. "Don't bring him into this! Just get out!"

"A piece by Bernini," Blaine told him before Quinn could say anything. "A miniature Daphne that he sculpted before his great Apollo and Daphne piece."

Daniel looked appropriately impressed. "That'd be a marvelous addition to your collection, Mr. Hartford. Having the original on loan from Italy and the miniature—it's almost like the pieces were designed to…fall into place." His gaze lingered on Quinn a moment too long before it went back to Blaine. "Well, I hate to interrupt your conversation but if I might steal Blaine away for a moment, I'll leave you and Professor Harper to discuss business." He didn't wait for an answer before locking a hand around Blaine's wrist and tugging him away.

"Married, Anderson?" Kurt said with a laugh. "The dirty little secrets never stop, do they?"

Daniel gave his drink to a passing waiter and crossed his arms over his chest. "She's a thief, isn't she, Blaine?"

Blaine glanced around the venue and, once he had decided that they were appropriately alone, said, "No. We're really here to sell the piece. And then leave."

"And then steal it back."

He swallowed. "Danny—"

"You don't get to do this, Blaine. You promised _no more_ _conning._ _Promised_."

"It's Jeffrey fucking Hartford, Danny—you know what he did. I have a right to get my revenge and you don't get to berate me."

"The world doesn't work that way. Revenge isn't always an option." They stared each other down and when Blaine didn't blink, Daniel sighed. "It's been three years. Find a new hobby, Blaine."

"Like _you_ did? Perfect new husband, perfect new _kid_—"

"Don't bring them into this!" he hissed immediately. "I almost lost them because of you."

"I didn't_ ask_ you to cheat on him."

"You didn't stop me either."

Silence. Blaine could distantly hear Quinn's conversation with Hartford through his earbud but everyone else in the van was silent. Artie, always the perfectionist, was probably trying to sort through how to continue the con. Puck was probably wondering what Blaine and Daniel were arguing about. And Kurt… Kurt could have been doing anything. Most likely though, he was wondering what Blaine's ex looked like.

"Change of plans," Artie said then. "I'm sending Puck and Kurt in. They're gonna steal the Picasso figure from the restoration room."

"You're kidding," Kurt laughed. "That security system? I'd need a week!"

Puck grunted his agreement. "Even Quinn would need a week."

"You're right," Blaine said to Daniel. But everyone in the van knew he was talking to them too. "I shouldn't have… I was being irresponsible. It wasn't a good idea. This whole thing wasn't a good idea."

"Blaine," Daniel sighed. "It wasn't your fault. Jamie forgave me, forgave _us_."

"I love you, Danny. And I love Jamie, and I love Jen, and so we have to stop being the people we were three years ago. I've moved on. I'm someone new. New job, new life, new place—and I'm doing the things I want _my _way."

"You're breaking laws."

"What if I promised you, right now, that I wouldn't sell Hartford the Bernini? I'll get my girl out of there and leave. I'll go back to New York. Would that make you happy?"

"It wouldn't make _you_ happy."

"Making sure you're happy makes me happy, Danny. That hasn't changed." Blaine licked his lips and dropped his gaze. "I'm getting out of here. You aren't."

Artie whistled. "That's our cue!"

"_Blaine_."

"And that's _okay,_" he continued. "We're both new people. I'm not hiding that from you."

"I don't know—"

"Just tell me something. This new Blaine—what do you think of him?"

In the earbud, Kurt was rattling off a list of things he needed to Quinn and Puck—and maybe even Blaine, he really wasn't sure—but nothing would distract him from Daniel's answer.

"Well," the lawyer said finally. "I don't love him. But I sure as hell like what he stands for."

Artie gave a triumphant laugh. "All right, team! We are a go! Tonight, ladies and gentlemen, we're gonna steal a Picasso."

-0-

Dressed in a stunningly well-fitted black suit with a blood-red shirt underneath, Kurt made his way into the courtyard and headed straight for the open bar with Puck on his tail.

"Glass of ice, please," he told the bartender with a smoldering look. With the man distracted, he said to Puck, "I need a big roll of aluminum foil."

"Got it," Puck said a moment later, having snatched the roll from underneath the buffet table. "Caterers are such good planners."

Kurt accepted the glass from the bartender and moved on. "Quinn, slip your eye shadow to Puck. The dark one, not the blue."

She did so, holding it behind her back with two fingers just as Puck walked around her.

"Anderson, you got chewing gum on you?"

"Yeah."

"Fantastic. And as much as I hate to say it, Puck's not the greatest assistant right now. How fast can you get to the security door inside?"

Blaine loosened his tie, already walking briskly through the courtyard. "On my way."

"Husband gone for the evening?"

"_Ex_-husband—and no, he's mingling. But he won't miss me."

When all three men were inside, Kurt leaned against their first problem: the entrance to the inner workings of the gallery. "It has a silent alarm," he explained. "Two seconds and the guards will storm in."

"How do you propose we proceed?"

With a smirk, Kurt held out his hand to Puck. "Makeup?"

He handed Kurt the little square and opened his mouth to say something else but Kurt held up a hand to stop him.

"You should hide now." Puck didn't move. "_Go._" As soon as he was gone, Kurt threw his arm around Blaine's shoulders and said, "We should pretend to make out."

"What?!"

He pulled Blaine against him, shoving his body back against the door at the same time so that it opened slightly, and then they were kissing.

It was deep and wet and really, really good because Kurt was holding onto his shoulders and sliding his hands into Blaine's hair, mouth moving readily and eagerly against his. The height difference was ridiculously hot and before Blaine had even consciously decided that he was going to allow this whole kissing thing, his body made the decision for him. He shoved forward, grabbing Kurt's hips and kissing him back with just as much passion.

There were breathy sighs and even one little moan that Blaine let out naturally before fisting his hands in Kurt's jacket and yanking him closer to his lower height. He hadn't even realized he'd _wanted_ to kiss Kurt until he actually did it and _fuck,_ did he want to kiss Kurt. To be fair, however, he hadn't been kissed by anyone new in quite awhile so he could reason, once he had control over his brain again, that any kissing would be pretty lovely and most definitely welcome regardless of what warm body was on the other end.

But _Kurt_. He was warm and solid and his hands on Blaine felt blistering hot. His mouth was perfect, his body was right there against him and he suddenly wanted nothing more than to find a door with a lock and have Kurt against him with nothing between them.

He was completely ready to begin the search for such a room when he heard the pointed clearing of a throat.

Kurt broke away first, glancing to his right and blushing when he noticed the security guard. "Oh."

"You, uh, bumped the door," the guard said.

It was then that Blaine remembered: Kurt was a very, very good grifter. He played flustered and embarrassed perfectly without overselling it and Blaine couldn't even feel a little proud of himself that he had helped Kurt along with the role because he _hadn't_. It was Kurt. Kurt never lost control, never let the job get away from him, and would never be stupid enough to actually give in to a distraction.

And the worst part of it all was that he _wanted _Kurt. Kurt whose real name he didn't even know, Kurt who he kind of hated, Kurt who was snarky and mean whenever he could get away with it and even most of the time when he couldn't.

It wasn't really _Kurt_, he reasoned. It was simply a warm, willing body. It had just been far too long since he'd had any such thing.

"Sorry," Kurt offered sheepishly to the guard.

With a nod, he walked away, radioing the false alarm to the rest of his buddies. An instant later, Kurt was through the door and saying, "Get the foil from Puck and follow me."

There was a long hallway that twisted into three different directions. One led back to a security room, another up to the main gallery, and the final one to the restoration room. Blaine followed dutifully and took the cup of ice from Kurt when it was shoved into his hand.

The keypad to the restoration room required a fingerprint.

Triumphantly, Kurt waved at Blaine with the eye shadow before using the brush to apply it to the scanner. "It's cliché, but it works." He held out a hand. "Handkerchief."

Blaine whipped it out of his pocket and handed it to Kurt. He placed his own thumb over the cloth and then pressed into the scanner, grinning when it flashed green and the door unlocked.

Inside the room, there were tables upon tables of artwork and paperwork as well as thin, blue lines hovering close to the floor. Laser sensors. No security cameras but a heat sensor—one that set off alarms when it recognized anything above the temperature of the room. Kurt grinned.

"Chew the gum," he told Blaine.

Blaine arched an eyebrow. "Why?"

"Do it, Anderson."

While he did that, Kurt took the roll of foil from him and ripped off a piece, folding it and twisting it a few times until it made a five-inch-long cylindrical cup. He poured a few ice cubes into it and held it out to Blaine.

"Stick your gum on here."

Blaine took the foil and laughed, impressed. "I got it. The sensor can't pick up our heat through the ice. I never would have thought of that."

"Yeah, probably not. Stick it over the sensor and then come fold two long strips of foil so they look like 'L's." Kurt shoved off his suit jacket as Blaine did as he was told and then kicked off his shoes. He rolled up his shirt sleeves, thanked his intuition for not wearing a tie, and did a cartwheel through the laser and into the middle of the room. Once on his feet, he stood still, listening. No alarms. "It's been a while since I've done that move."

Blaine was staring.

Kurt snapped his fingers. "Foil, please. We don't have all night."

Blaine held out the two long strips and Kurt took them…before dropping them onto the beams. Blaine winced. But nothing happened.

"Tsk, tsk, Anderson, such little faith. The foil reflects the beam back to the source. Now, if I just slide them in the opposite direction of each other…" Kurt bent at the waist, doing so, and Blaine cocked his head and didn't even try not to notice how nice Kurt's ass looked in the dress pants he was wearing. "I have some wiggle room."

The separated beams left Kurt with tons of free space. The Picasso sculpture—creatively entitled "Small Figure"—certainly lived up to its name. It wasn't ridiculously small but easy enough to get out with. Over a century old, ridiculous detailed, and cast off of bronze, the moment Kurt picked it up his heart gave a heavy thump.

"You can take the sculpture out to dinner later," Blaine said. "Let's get out of here."

"It's a Picasso, Anderson. I'm appreciating it. Toss me the fake?"

Blaine did so and then Kurt moved, avoiding the lasers before easing the foil out of their stream. "Not even on a pressure pad. Amateurs."

"We can't all be perfect."

When they were outside the room and on their way back to the team with the figure wrapped up in Kurt's jacket, it was easier to breathe. And once they were all inside the van, Puck pulling out of the lot and Quinn kicking off her heels, Kurt sighed happily.

"We just stole a 4.2-million-dollar statue! Damn, this is one productive day."

-0-

Blaine wasn't sure why, a few days after they all got back to New York and dispersed, he decided to go to the bar in the Hilton a few blocks away from his apartment. At least, he wasn't until he got there.

He wasn't going to drink. In all honesty, he was there for a completely different reason. One that was probably even more dangerous than alcohol.

It was late. Almost midnight. But the city that never slept was just as alive as ever, probably even more so than in the day time. Except for the small strip of bar inside the monstrous room. It was nearly empty, only holding one person. A man, seated on a stool, leaning over a drink and staring at it as if it might hold the answers to the universe.

"How'd you know I'd be here?" Kurt asked.

Next to him, Blaine traced a pattern on the glossy wood of the bar with his fingertip. "I didn't."

"So why are you here?"

"I didn't _know_ you'd be here. But I hoped."

Kurt was silent.

"You don't live in New York?"

"I do. Sometimes. My friend Rachel is staying at my apartment right now, has been for a few weeks, and we tend to get on each other's nerves sometimes. So. Got a room here."

Blaine nodded, lifting his gaze to the rows and rows of colorful liquor before him. "Oh."

"Out of all the hotels in New York."

"I have very good guessing skills."

A bartender came by to pour another glass for Kurt and then promptly disappeared again. They were alone.

"So what do you have against Hartford?" Kurt asked, swirling his drink.

That was a pretty loaded question. The answer, of course, was in the fact that, during the last leg of Andrew's battle with cancer, Blaine had found a treatment—a ridiculously expensive treatment—that would cure him. It had worked for a few others in the same condition so, naturally, it was the only thing Blaine could think of to do. He'd promised Danny that he wouldn't use any of the funds he'd maintained during his earlier conning years and so he went to their insurance company to pay for it.

The rest was history.

"_Experimental,_" Hartford had called the treatment. "_Too much of a risk. We'll have to investigate it, Mr. Anderson_."

"He pulled a nasty trick on me a few years ago," was what Blaine said instead. "I wanted to get him back."

"Well, you're sure to make some shit hit the fan. When his lovely, newly-retrieved-after-theft and completely verified Picasso turns out to be a fake, all of his company's claims will be investigated. See if he ever gets another wealthy client."

Blaine nodded.

"Want a drink?"

"No, but thanks. I don't drink." Not anymore.

"Hm. You sure look like you could use one." Blaine didn't respond. "So. Married, huh?"

"Not legally. It was a small thing, just for the two of us. Rings and stuff. We called ourselves husbands. It was nice for a while."

"Sounds like it."

Blaine ran his tongue over his lips nervously before turning on his stool and facing Kurt. "You're still here."

"Yes."

"For a reason?"

"People always do things for reasons, Anderson."

"So what's yours?"

Kurt blinked. And stared. And then turned back to the bar and tossed back the rest of his drink. He was completely silent, leaving Blaine with sweaty palms and a racing heart, as he stood and pulled on his jacket. Then he met Blaine's gaze and said, "Hotel bar closes in five minutes. You wanna come upstairs?"

"No."

There had been no expression on Kurt's face to begin with so Blaine couldn't read disappointment or surprise. Nothing changed. He simply nodded and began to walk away. But Blaine couldn't have that.

"Kurt." The other man stopped. Turned. Waited. And when Blaine finally said, "I want you to come home with me," there wasn't a second of hesitation before he was back at the bar and grabbing Blaine's hand to lead him out onto the street.

-0-

He needed it to be his place. He needed it to be his home, his bed, his memories. That night, what they were going to do, it wasn't something to shove into a corner of his mind, something that existed only in that hotel room and only for however long Kurt let him stay. Blaine needed it to be more than that. Needed the closeness, the warmth, the passion—he needed Kurt. And he needed Kurt to need him, just for a little while.

They didn't kiss until they were inside Blaine's apartment. When the door was closed and locked and they were alone, Blaine slung his arms around Kurt's neck and kissed him deeply, moaning into his mouth and arching against him. Kurt bent at the knees and his hands grazed over Blaine's lower thighs before picking up him and forcing him to wrap his legs around Kurt's waist.

"Fuck," he gasped breathlessly. "You're strong."

"Lube?"

"Bedroom."

"Where?"

"Upstairs."

"Way to make things difficult, Anderson," Kurt laughed, biting at Blaine's lower lip with teasing reprimand. "You should start keeping emergency lube downstairs for couch sex."

"Sure, I'll do that. Now put me down so we can go."

They ran up the stairs together, Blaine leading him, and when they made it to the bed, they were well on their way to nakedness. The kissing never stopped as they undressed. Kurt's mouth moved to his jaw, his throat, his collarbone, and then further down as he tossed their clothes to the other side of the room.

"You're still wearing pants," he told Kurt. "Off."

"Working on it."

Blaine tugged him onto the bed and rolled so he was over him, straddling his thighs. With an evil smirk, he slithered down Kurt's body and removed Kurt's dress pants for him. With his teeth. Then Kurt's boxer briefs—which he looked fucking amazing in—were gone and Blaine's mouth was watering.

He was perfect. Absolutely perfect. Pale with easily defined stomach muscles and huge biceps, broad shoulders that tapered down to slim waist and perfect thighs—he was a god.

"Anderson."

"Kiss me."

Their lips met carefully as they tested the waters. Blaine knew it was too late to stop even if he wanted to—which he didn't—because Kurt was right there, in his home, in his bed, wrapping his arms around him, rolling them over, and pressing him into the mattress.

It was what he wanted. It was what he needed.

Blaine moaned as Kurt settled his body on top of him. Everything was warm and perfect and Kurt was still kissing him patiently, his hands trailing down Blaine's chest and twisting in the hair there.

"Tell me what you want," Kurt breathed.

He didn't even have to think about the answer. Ever since that kiss earlier than evening, he'd known.

He wanted to push Kurt back against the bed and taste every inch of him. He wanted to drag his tongue over his neck, his chest, his nipples, his stomach, and then take his cock into his mouth, his throat. He wanted to lift Kurt's legs onto his shoulders and taste him _everywhere_. And once Kurt was writhing, begging, moaning and shouting his name at the top of his lungs, he would flop over onto his belly and make Kurt watch as he fingered himself. _That's_ what he wanted.

But there just wasn't enough time. He was already achingly hard and, with how long it had been since the last time he'd had sex, he wasn't going to last long enough to do everything he wanted. So he settled for grabbing handfuls of Kurt's hair and hissing, "I want you to fuck me," over his lips before pulling him in for a bruising kiss.

Kurt groaned deep in his chest and nodded. "Lube?"

Neither of them was really sure how it happened. One second they were fumbling in the nightstand drawer while trying not to separate their lips and the next Blaine's knees were hooked over Kurt's shoulders, ankles crossed behind his head, and he was gasping towards the ceiling while grabbing at the blankets for something to hold on to while Kurt spread him.

Kurt took his time with the prep. Not too much lube, not too little, but just enough, and there was scissoring and _guh,_ the way he fucked into Blaine with his fingers—it was nearly too much to take. He needed Kurt inside him, no time to waste.

He slid the condom on Kurt himself, blinking sweat out of his eyes and relishing the burn in his thighs. It was an extremely subservient position, all spread and exposed for Kurt. But he couldn't even pretend to be embarrassed. He needed it. He needed Kurt to take him, claim him, make him ache everywhere so that he couldn't go a single week without constantly thinking about what it was like to have Kurt fuck him. If only he would _get on with it_.

"_Kurt_," he hissed, tugging at his own cock in desperation. "C'mon, Kurt, _fuck _me."

Kurt didn't respond, choosing instead to rock forward and force Blaine to bend even more in half, lifting his ass at the same time. Feeling Kurt enter him for the first time made his eyes roll back in head. He was thick and throbbing but oh so patient, sliding inside bit by bit. Finally, after what felt like an hour of waiting for him to move, Blaine couldn't take it anymore.

He arched his hips and forced Kurt deeper inside. The air was split with a crackling groan from Kurt and then Blaine laughed airily, fingernails digging into Kurt's biceps as he said, "Kurt, _please_."

It took two tries for Kurt to find his prostate.

The pressure was perfect, the stretch the best Blaine could ever remember, and when Kurt kissed him, he made ridiculous noises of pain and pleasure because everything was fucking sensational. His knees were against his shoulders, his body pushed to the limit, and it was _Kurt_. Kurt was doing that to him. Kurt was owning him, controlling him, making him feel things he'd never felt before. It was heart-stopping, mind-blowing, and, cataclysmically, life-changing.

It seemed a little silly to think of it as such. After all, it was just sex. But then, when it was over, when they'd come so hard they saw stars and separated with winces and groans and soft kisses to the backs of knees and thighs, they didn't move away. Once Kurt had disposed of the condom and was wrapping Blaine up in his arms, holding him captive against the real world for a moment longer, he knew. His heart was fucking gone.

Blaine fell asleep like that, blissful and relaxed, Kurt a solid barrier around him. But he felt like he'd only blinked the next time he woke up. It was suddenly five hours later, the room was impossibly darker, and he was alone. On the pillow next to him, there was a note.

_Catch me if you can, Anderson_.

He laughed joyously and flopped against the mattress to giggle up at the ceiling like a delighted schoolgirl.

Yes, he would catch Kurt. No matter how long it took.

**A/N: Hope you liked it! Don't forget to review!**

**Love,**

**E. M. Zeray**


	5. The Penitent Job

It was nearly two in the morning when Blaine woke up to the sound of his hotel room door closing. It was a single room complete with big, comfortable bed and cable TV, and he had definitely checked in alone—under an alias, yes, but alone—so it really wasn't much of a stretch for him to worry about who the hell was entering his room.

"So, Andrew Mason," a smooth voice cooed. "What are you doing in Chicago?"

Blaine clenched his jaw. "Kurt."

"No, no, no—my name this time is Joshua Kinney. I'm a fashion designer worth millions."

Sighing, he rolled over and sat up against the pillows. It was dark but he could make out the outline of Kurt in front of his bed just as his jacket fell off of his shoulders.

"Well, Mr. Kinney, I'm afraid this isn't your room."

"I conned this woman tonight. Computer geek heiress. Her father owns some anti-viral program." He laughed, the sound high and bright. "It was too easy. She wanted some of my new and upcoming designs to show off at parties so of course I immediately sat down with her to talk about what kind of things she wanted, etc, etc…" Blaine heard the sound of boots against the floor, then the jangle of a belt buckle, and Kurt's outline was half as tall as he bent over to shove his jeans off. "I got seven point three _million _dollars, Anderson. _Million_."

"Congratulations. Now, what are you doing in my room?"

Kurt—or Joshua, as that was just as likely to be his real name—laughed again and as Blaine's eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could see the man lift his arms to pull his undershirt over his head. The button-down he'd been wearing when he'd walked in had probably come off right after the jacket. "I," he said lowly, "saw that Andrew Mason was on the guest list for the private party that was held tonight in the ballroom downstairs. And I thought to myself, '_Hm, that's quite strange. I swear I've heard that name before_.' So I checked the registry and…" Shrugging, he kneeled on the bed in nothing but boxer briefs and grinned at Blaine. "Here we are."

Blaine swallowed tightly. "It's been awhile."

"The last I saw of you… Well, the last time I saw you, I ended up seeing quite a lot of you, isn't that right, Anderson?"

It would have been silly to blush but apparently his bloodstream didn't get the memo because his cheeks were pink and he was staring down at his lap, trying not to think about that night. "I could say the same to you, Hummel."

"Oh, no, no. I told you—it's Kinney." And then Kurt was crawling towards him on the bed. When their lips met, Blaine knew that there was nothing he could do to stop it if he tried. Kurt was going to get him into bed only to ditch him again but he just couldn't even care because fuck, kissing Kurt was like nothing he'd ever experienced before. He couldn't get enough of it.

"Are we gonna have sex?" he whispered into Kurt's mouth. "Because I don't normally pack lube and condoms when I go on vacation."

"Don't worry. I'm always prepared."

Forty-eight minutes later, they were both laughing breathlessly, squirming closer together and pressing mouths against necks and chests, not really kissing but just…there.

"Anderson," Kurt panted, "if you fuck all your one-night stands like that, I promise you that you have ratings written about you in a bathroom somewhere."

"I'm gonna take that as a compliment."

"Good. They're rare from me."

"I know."

Kurt laughed again before sitting up and stretching. His shoulder popped. Blaine remained where he was, lounging against the pillows with his arms behind his head and a ridiculous grin on his face, until he noticed that Kurt was staring at the nightstand to his right and that he looked less than pleased.

When he followed Kurt's line of sight, his own grin fell back into an even line. His earbud.

"Anderson. Is that what I think it is?"

Blaine swallowed tightly. "It might be."

"You're working with them again, aren't you? You're here—you were in the ballroom—because of _a con_?"

"You're here for a con."

Kurt snorted and shoved off the bed, searching for his clothes in the dark. "You know what I meant. You're conning rich guys so that you can give the money to _other people_. Do you have any idea how _stupid _that is?! We're criminals! Your team—Puckerman, Quinn, Artie—they're all criminals! And so are you!"

"Is there a rule somewhere that says criminals can't help people?"

"You're an idiot, Anderson." Blaine couldn't think of anything to say to that. It was silent until Kurt finished dressing and, turning back to the bed, he said, "We're the bad guys. Get used to it."

"Y'know, Kurt—sometimes bad guys make the best good guys."

-0-

They never really hit a lull. The team worked diligently, readily, and successfully, never complained, but did what they knew they had to, and they were frighteningly good at it. It helped that Blaine had stopped drinking.

It was a week after the run-in with Kurt, just as they were wrapping up a con, that their meeting in Blaine's apartment was interrupted.

"All right," a new voice said, its owner stomping into the apartment and slamming the door closed behind him. "Glad you're all here."

"Kurt?" Puck said, frowning. "What are you doing here?"

Blaine stared unabashedly, watching as Kurt moved deeper into the apartment and stood before the team that was sitting on the two couches—or, in Artie's case, off to the side—in Blaine's living room. "I want in on the team," Kurt said. "Now."

Blaine put his suddenly delightfully dirty imagination that sparked to life at Kurt's presence on the backburner to ask, "Why?"

Kurt didn't even look at him. "There's someone I need to get back at."

"We're not in the business of personal revenge. Not unless it saves other people."

"It's not for me," Kurt spat.

"Then who?" Quinn asked.

Kurt folded his arms over his chest and practically caved in on himself, making him look shorter and lot weaker than he actually was. He spoke to the floor when he said, "Someone important to me."

"You're gonna need to give us more than that," Blaine told him, a flare of what he was sure was jealousy heating his chest. "And why would you need us anyway? You're a fully capable thief."

"I need a crew," he explained. His arms fell down and his back straightened but his eyes weren't as harsh as they had been. He was asking for help. It was probably the best chance Blaine was going to get.

Nodding shortly, Blaine leaned back into the cushions. "Tell us what happened."

"This man that I know, he came up on some hard times a few years ago with medical bills and his business…and so he borrowed money from a loan shark."

"Boyfriend?" Puck asked.

"Not even close, Puckerman," Kurt sneered. Blaine tried not to look relieved. "Anyway, he can't work anymore because he's gotten older and is at risk for another heart attack so… Well, he owns this bar. His dad owned it and when he passed away, he got it and he's had it forever but the loan shark wants to collect on his debt and my—_he_," Kurt corrected himself quickly, "put the bar up for collateral."

"I assume this isn't in New York," Blaine said.

"No. Ohio."

Artie pulled a face. "Yuck. Ohio. Who wants to go to Ohio?"

"We do," Blaine told him, standing up off the couch. "Loan sharks don't like to give people more time to gather funds and if he's getting scammed out of more money than he borrowed—which he probably is because a loan shark in Ohio most likely charges more interest than anywhere else—then it's our duty to help him out." He nodded at Kurt. "So, where exactly in Ohio are we going?"

"Lima."

Quinn stood up and every eye went to her as he made her way towards Kurt. A few clunks of her high heels later, she said, "You swore you'd never go back there."

"Other promises are more important."

"How much is the loan shark asking?"

"He loaned 5,000 dollars and with interest over two years, he's asking 25,000."

Puck scowled. "Why don't we just call the cops? I mean, I don't use 'em but that's what they're here for, right?"

"If we call the cops," Blaine said, "this guy says he's borrowed money, the loan shark says he didn't, and then he comes back and burns down the bar a month or two later."

Artie sighed, crossing his arms over this chest. "Man, that's what sucks about the credit crunch. Honest people can't get loans, shark move in, twelve points on the interest every month… There's no way to get out from under that."

There was a contemplative tension in the air before Blaine said, "Kurt, how much time do we have?"

"That's the thing. I went down there to try to sort it all out but my…my friend said that they were gone for a while and were gonna be back tomorrow to collect."

"So we have to scam loan sharks out of money in less than twenty-four hours?" Artie asked incredulously. "How are we going to manage that?"

Blaine grinned, looking around the room with confidence. "We've done more with less."

-0-

Blaine had never been to Lima, Ohio. He'd grown up a few hours away—not that he'd let anyone know that—in Westerville, but Lima was strictly lower-class territory, a town that he and his friends had avoided in favor of country clubs, fancy movie theatres, and restaurants that served edible food. But in reality, Lima wasn't really any worse than Westerville. They were still Ohio, and they were still two cities that Blaine never wanted to be in. Until Kurt stormed in, he'd never even thought he'd leave the east coast.

When they arrived in Lima, the first place they went after their hotel was a suburb. In that suburb, a charming-looking house with a nice garden and a 2.5 kid ideal attached. Blaine was the only one Kurt was willing to bring along—when he found out why, his blood ran cold.

"It's my dad," Kurt said in the car.

"What is?"

"The guy we're helping."

Blaine swallowed tightly. "Oh."

"Relax. He'll try to scare you but he's just a big teddy bear."

"Why will he try to scare me?"

"Because he's not out of his old ways yet. He still thinks every boy I bring home is going to rob me of my virginity even though he walked in on me and my boyfriend in college when I brought him home for break." He laughed fondly. "Even though you and I aren't together, my dad will do everything in his power to try to convince us otherwise."

Blaine nodded. "Okay. Anything else I should know?"

"Just stay calm. He won't attack unless provoked."

With that inside knowledge, Blaine went into the house with less than a confident attitude.

Kurt's dad's name was Burt.

"So, Blaine," the man said once they were seated at the dining room table. "What brings you down to Lima?"

Kurt spoke up before Blaine could. "Dad, I told you. We're here to help with Frankie."

Burt looked considerately down at the table and then up at Blaine again.

"My son's a good kid for trying to help," Burt said gruffly. "But I don't see what you can do for me unless you've got 25,000 dollars for me." When Blaine opened his mouth, the older man held up a hand. "Look, I appreciate you guys coming down here, but I don't need my first meeting with my son's boyfriend to be about money."

"Dad!" Kurt hissed. "He's not my boyfriend!"

Blaine shook his head immediately to agree. "I'm not—no, sir, I—Kurt and I are in a strictly professional relationship."

Burt's eyebrows flew up. "Then how come you looked all nervous walking through the door? Wouldn't be all fidgety and guilty-looking if you were just a friend, now would you?"

Kurt groaned, crossing his arms over his chest. "Dad, seriously, just… We want to help you."

"You know what would help me, Kurt?" Burt asked rhetorically as he gazed across the table at his son. "If you settled down and had a kid or two. No more changing names and phone numbers and cities every month. How am I supposed to find out how my kid is if he never stays still long enough to let me call him?"

"Dad."

"With all due respect, Mr. Hummel," Blaine said, "we really do want to help you. Loan sharks are crazy territorial. They're mean, they're powerful, and they'll whatever they think necessary to get their money."

Burt hesitated. "You trying to scare me, kid?"

"No, sir. Just telling you the truth."

Burt grunted. "I'm getting too old for this crap."

"You're not old until I'm old," Kurt muttered, a small smile appearing. "And I'm not old yet so shut up."

"You're old, kiddo. Live with it."

"I'm only 32!"

"I was married to your mom by your age! Jesus, Kurt—finding eligible bachelors in New York has gotta be easier than in Lima! All I wanna know is when I'm finally gonna get a wedding invitation."

"Dad!"

Blaine smirked at he watched the exchange. "Mr. Hummel, is there anything you can tell me about the loan shark that might be useful?"

"Are you a cop?"

"No, sir."

Burt nodded, leaning back in his chair. "All right, I'm not even gonna ask what you two are doing since it would probably give me a heart attack to hear it, but I'll tell you this. He's Irish."

Blaine arched an eyebrow. "Irish?"

"Yeah—like from Ireland. Name's Frankie Walsh, practically lives in my bar, scamming people out of their money. I didn't mind so much until he told me that I needed to pay up by tonight. I don't have all of the money. Some of it, sure, but not all of it, and I have a feeling that he won't care much to stick around and wait for me."

"Why does he need it tonight?"

"No idea. Until Kurt told me he had a plan to help me out, I was just gonna give up the bar." He sighed. "It's just a tiny thing in the city, not even that popular, but it's how I make my living."

"We'll make sure he doesn't take the bar, Mr. Hummel."

"Well," Burt said, "that would be optimal."

Kurt stood at that and gestured towards the door. "C'mon. We got work to do."

"Stay safe, Kurt," his father told him. "Don't be stupid."

Kurt smiled. "Never."

-0-

The bar—which was kind of actually a pub and would explain why the Irish dude was drawn towards it—was the smallest drinking establishment Blaine had ever seen. It was quite cozy, though, and rather alive for it being barely past six o'clock.

The team settled into the back room.

"We need to run recon," Blaine told them. "We have the back room to ourselves for the evening so now we just need to wait for the guy to show up. Puck can go out and find out some things for us, and then we'll get down to business."

Kurt, sitting next to Artie and Quinn in front of two laptops, said, "He'll be here by eight."

He was.

Puck was sent out as soon as Kurt noticed him and when he returned, he fell into a chair, kicked his feet up and sighed.

"Puck," Kurt said after a moment, "it'd be helpful if you said words now."

"Frankie's two hours here. Heard him talking to one of his goons—there are two of them, by the way, didn't catch their names—about how they needed to get the money and skate, or leave and then return for the bar later."

Blaine nodded. "He's got a time limit. Okay. We can work with this. Everyone out to the main room."

Artie stayed behind, along with Puck, but Quinn, Blaine, and Kurt settled close to the door, watching.

Kurt pointed to a man across the bar. He was a few inches shorter than 6 foot tall, but the two guys on either side of him were each at least 6'2"; he was wearing a leather jacket, had a sour-looking face, and hadn't shaved in what looked like two days. When he smiled eerily at one of his friends, Blaine caught a glimpse of ugly, misshapen teeth.

"That's him," he muttered. "Frankie Walsh."

"Okay," Blaine said to Quinn, "we need to gather some information. Like… Why is this _Irish_ loan shark here and what's with the two-hour time table?"

"So what's the game?"

"I'm thinking Twenty Questions."

She beamed. "I bet I can do it in ten."

"In that outfit?" He gave a low whistle. "Hell, honey—you could do it in five."

"Oh, if only you were straight."

Winking, he bumped his shoulder into hers. "Go get him."

Quinn gave their mark a once over before handing her bag to Blaine, yanking the waistband of her skirt up, pulling her scoop-necked shirt down, releasing her hair from its ponytail to lie around her shoulders, and grabbing a shot from a passing waitress to down it with a hiss.

"Thorough," Kurt said appreciatively.

"The art of the con. I've been playing grifter on the team for a while and since you're a dude… You can watch and learn. For now. I'm sure we'll have something important for you to do later, right, Blaine?" Quinn winked at him but didn't wait for an answer before walking over to the bar and settling on top of a stool. "Shot of Paddy's," she told the bartender, just loud enough for the man behind her to hear. Immediately, he turned around, eyes caught on her legs.

Blaine grinned proudly.

"She's good," Kurt whispered to him.

"She's knows what she's doing."

Frankie walked over to her just as her shot was set down on the counter. "That's only a bit of Irish," he crooned. "How'd you like a whole lot of Irish?"

Quinn watched him with an engaging smile as he leaned against the bar next to her but then laughed as if not really sure she wanted him near her. "And what do you do?"

"Typical," Frankie laughed. "Only Americans ask for your occupation before your name."

Blaine nodded to Kurt. "You and Puck—you're up. Grab his wallet while he's distracted, hand off to Puck."

"Oh, with pleasure."

Kurt pushed off the wall and strolled by, reaching with two fingers into Frankie's leather jacket as he said, "I'm a bank, sweetheart." Two seconds later, it was in Puck's hand and then tucked under his arm as he crossed them over his chest.

"A bit short for a bank," Quinn teased, leaning forward.

"Oh, very clever. It's a family business of mine actually, based back in Belfast. I'm the VP in charge of overseas expansion." There was a laugh to his words that Quinn joined in on before he even finished speaking and when she leaned in to grab his arms as she did so, Blaine noticed Frankie take a look down her shirt.

"I love it!" Quinn said through her laugh.

"Cash and an ID," Puck said through their earbuds. He took a picture of the ID—a passport—and sent it to Artie who was set up in a side room with a computer and other various items.

A moment later, Artie said, "I'm running it but right now I got next to nothing on this guy. No bank accounts, no credit cards—he's totally off the grid."

"Frankie Walsh," the man introduced himself, lifting Quinn's hand to his lips. "Loan shark."

Playing the part, Quinn's eyes went wide with shock and she looked away, coughing uncomfortably.

"If I were ashamed, I couldn't do my job," Frankie continued. "I provide a service for people with no recourse. I help those with nowhere else to turn." He shrugged. "Society needs me."

"Right, but, um…" She glanced around helplessly, still smiling as if secretly please. "Isn't it illegal?"

"As me dad says, 'We pick up where the law leaves off.'"

"I don't like his accent," Puck said gruffly. "I feel like I'm in a Gerard Butler movie."

"He's Scottish," Blaine corrected him.

"You would know."

Artie cleared his throat. "Guys, I got something on Walsh. Or better yet"—he put on a thick Irish accent to say—"_dear ol' Da_. He not only runs the family loan sharking business but used to kill people with nail bombs for the IRA."

"You see, I convinced me dad to let me open up a branch here in Ohio—and in other places in the states—to grow the business as it were." Frankie didn't look away from Quinn's eyes, which were getting more and more sultry as she bit her lip and twirled a piece of hair on her finger. He was really into his job. "For two hundred years, America took Ireland's best and brightest. I… I'm just here to collect the interest."

Blaine locked eyes with Kurt from across the bar as he got back Walsh's wallet from Puck. "Quinn, reach up and put your hand on the back of his neck, make him lean forward a bit. Kurt's gonna go drop his wallet off again."

She did so, muttering, "You're so smart." When the drop was done, she moved her hand to his chest. "So tell me—how is the rest of America broke but you're not?"

He was all too eager to tell her. "Cash only, love. That's the secret. Numbers on a screen can be manipulated but a cash business endures. It's good enough for my dad and his dad before 'im—it's good enough for me."

"Whoa, guys, I got plane tickets!" Artie announced. "Walsh is headed back to Belfast in a couple of hours."

Blaine nodded to himself. "That explains the deadline." At his side, Kurt watched him as he brainstormed. He felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up but pointedly ignored it. "Why take the bag of cash? Quinn, ask him… Ask him how long he's in town."

"Don't make it slutty though," Kurt added. "If you do, he'll just suspicious that you won't leave with him right away for a quickie. Be…suggestive. Not offering."

As Quinn did so, Blaine looked at the other man appreciatively. "Not bad, Hummel."

"I'm pretty smart sometimes, Anderson."

"Leavin' tonight," Walsh said. "Annual review sort of thing—show my new branch of the business is profitable."

Quinn blinked up at him, smirking devilishly. "_How_ profitable?"

"This is good," Blaine told Kurt. "He probably keeps cash on him—maybe with his thugs or—"

"Or right behind him in that big, black leather bag on the stool?" Kurt finished.

The rest of the team was silent as Walsh picked up said bag and tugged it open, flashing stacks and stacks of twenties, fifties, and hundreds to Quinn. She played impressed and embarrassed, avoiding eye contact for a moment before he said, "That's not all of it, mind you. Just enough to repay me dad for his investment and prove that_ this_ branch is very, _very _profitable indeed."

"Well then." Quinn grabbed her shot, tossing it back. "You can afford to buy a girl a drink. I'll be right back." Smiling flirtatiously, she slid off the stool and headed towards the restroom, only changing her course once Blaine had said, "_He's not looking,"_ into the com.

A moment later, all five of them were in the back room with Artie, regarding each other nervously.

"Can we con him in two hours?" Kurt asked.

"We only have an hour and a half," Quinn grumbled. "We—there's no way—we just can't pull something together this fast. There were so many things were didn't know until we got here. To add them into play…"

Blaine dug out his wallet. "Fifty bucks—I got fifty bucks. Artie, listen, I need you to tell me what live sport's being broadcasted right now. Quinn, set the hook. And you guys," he said, gesturing to Puck and Kurt, "I need cash."

"It's impossible," Quinn insisted.

Apprehension dawned on Kurt. "You wanna run the wire. In two hours."

"One and a half," Artie corrected.

"The wire's three weeks minimum," Puck said angrily.

Blaine nodded. "Okay, look, this is just the wire…in a bottle. And just because no one's ever done it before doesn't mean it's impossible."

Quinn set one hand on her hips and sighed, "Yeah, it does. What are we supposed to do, Blaine? Steal the bar?"

"_Borrow_ the bar. To save it."

Quinn didn't look convinced. Kurt looked worried, Puck looked angry, and Artie…Artie looked pretty calm actually. "All right. Let's do this."

-0-

When Blaine entered the pub again—in character—Quinn had Walsh up against a wall with her fingers twisted in shirt, giggling at everything he said. Kurt and Puck were out and about, ready to return momentarily, and Blaine was breaking it down.

"Nothing fancy. A classic wire. Artie, you got the basketball game delayed so that you can feed me the info. I know what's going to happen—he doesn't. I get him to bet. Now, where's my cash?"

"Man," Artie sighed, "it is 9 PM on a Friday night, all the banks are closed."

"ATMs have a daily withdraw limit," Kurt mumbled.

"Look, if you want me to do an electronic wire transfer for one hundred grand between the Caymans and Madagascar, I can do that. But if you're talking cold, hard cash, you're out of luck, I'm sorry. Welcome to the future."

Turning to Kurt, Puck said, "Use your little slimmer thing and gank the ATMs."

"It's called a _skimmer_ but thank you for trying. And no, I don't have that thing anymore. And what the hell is _gank_?"

"Can we please focus?" Blaine asked.

"Guys, I hate to say it but…" Artie took a deep breath. "We're gonna need the emergency fund."

"My emergency fund is back in a New York storage container packed full of priceless art pieces," Kurt hissed.

"Not _your_ emergency fund. _Our_ emergency fund. Puckerman—get to it."

"What is he talking about?"

"Hollowed out books, empty coffee containers, false drawers—everyone has secret emergency funds in their apartments. We happen to bring ours on the move." Puck grabbed Kurt's arm and pushed him the opposite direction. "To the hotel. I have like five hundred bucks just stuck in my socks."

Blaine eyed Quinn from his spot at the bar. "Very helpful, Puck. Thanks for the notice. And hurry back. It's starting to snow."

"Yeah." Kurt brushed a few flakes off his jacket. "We noticed."

"I'm sure I could find Quinn's stash somewhere," Puck continued.

Artie cleared his throat. "Um, mine's in the flash bottom of my briefcase but don't look at anything else in there, you got that?"

"Sure thing, man. Now go help Blaine. We'll be back soon."

Ten minutes later, Puck walked in the front door of the bar and stuffed stacks of cash into Blaine's waiting hands. "With the ATMs and the funds—little over nine grand. That enough?"

"I don't need enough to win. Just enough to lose."

"He's gonna lose our money?!" Artie cried. "I did not sign up for this."

"Calm down, you big baby," Puck growled. "He'll get it back."

Blaine stuffed the stacks of cash into the inside pockets of his jacket, keeping his eyes on Walsh's thugs the whole time. Eventually, Puck followed his line of sight.

"You want me to take care of the muscle?"

"Yeah," he said and Puck sauntered off to stand near Walsh's thugs, flirting halfheartedly with a waitress. "Artie, let me know when you've got control of the feeds."

"Kurt and I are ready in the back. I'm about to splice… Well, everything." He waved around the clump of wires that controlled everything in the building. "Got every wire we'd need from behind the wall. Kurt's not too shabby with a band saw."

Blaine chuckled. "All right. Quinn, I'm moving in."

Frankie and Quinn had moved back to the bar moments before, the blonde's back to Blaine when they sat. Now, Blaine stepped forward and channeled his inner jerk. Coming up behind Quinn, he wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her hair, not even backing down when she made a disgusted noise and squirmed away from him.

"Oh, perfect," she groaned, frustrated.

"C'mon, Val, don't be like that," Blaine muttered. His voice was deep and his words were slurred intentionally.

Bitterly, Quinn yanked herself away from Blaine and said, "It was nice to meet you, Frankie," under her breath before storming towards the exit.

"Hey," Blaine said defensively but it didn't matter. Quinn was gone and Frankie was there, glaring at him.

"Thanks a lot, you goby—I was making head with her!"

"Sorry, I'll make it up to you." Gesturing to Frankie, Blaine turned to the bartender and said, "Get this guy a drink. Whatever he wants."

"Gimme a glass," Frankie said. "And the most expensive scotch you've got."

"Oh, wow, well played." Blaine dug around in his pocket before pulling out a wad of folded cash and flicking a few bills onto the counter. Not before making a show of it however.

"What's the story with the blonde?"

Blaine's eyebrows went up as he regarded Frankie. "The blonde, oh, yeah, well—I used to go out with her until I broke her brother's kneecaps. A gambling debt like that! You don't pay, you don't walk, I don't care who you are. Not in my bar. Can't have it."

Walsh nodded approvingly. "All right. I'll drink to that. Have a seat." They sat together at the bar, right in front of the television. "Get 'im a glass, will you?"

"That's very kind of you," Blaine said, drumming his fingers on the counter and then accepting the glass from the bartender when he returned.

"What's your name?"

Shit. Hadn't planned that far ahead. "Name's, uh, Danny. Yeah, Danny Anderson."

"Good to meet you, Danny." They shook hands and Blaine resisted the urge to steal his back to slam himself across the back of the head with it. First Andrew, now Danny—what was next? Using his brother's name?

In the side room, Artie grabbed the extra laptop from Kurt and set it next to his own and Blaine's. "Okay, we are up and running. I've set the TV in the bar on a twenty second delay. Oh, Cisco just hit a jumper from the baseline." He whistled his approval just in time for Quinn to walk in from the back.

"We need info from the bodyguards but my character's burned." She nodded at Kurt. "You're up."

"On it." He was gone in a millisecond.

"You make book on this game?" Frankie asked, watching the TV intently.

"Nah."

"How about a little action?" Smirking, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a stack of twenties. "Without the juice, o' course."

Blaine nodded shortly, trying to seem a bit unwilling. "All right. Let's see… A hundred that Cisco misses." He set his cash down, tapping it mindlessly and still watching the screen. Easier to sell a lie when the eyes have a distraction.

"I'll take that." He set down his matching cash and snatched both piles up a moment later. "For a bookie, Danny, you're not much of a gambler."

"Puck, you're on the thugs," Kurt said. "But play nice. I got a plan. Try not to need me for a few seconds; I'm taking out the com."

Puck nodded before sliding up beside Thug A, who was throwing his second dart at the board that was a good ten feet away and missing spectacularly. Puck chuckled. Thug A glared and said, in a thick Irish accent, "What's your problem?"

"You remind me of my sister," he laughed.

Thug A stepped closer, looking ready to punch him, and so Puck grabbed a dart from the man's hand and threw it at the board, not even looking. He knew, the second he heard the satisfying thump of the collision, that it was a bull's-eye. But it helped that Thug A and Thug B were both staring at the dart with appropriately shocked expressions.

"Yeah, it's all in the wrist," Puck explained. "Hey," he said, turning to a wandering waitress. "How are ya? Can you bring me a couple beers for my friends and one for me too? We're gonna play a little darts here." He winked as she walked away.

When the girl went back to the bar to get the drinks, Kurt—who had his com in again—approached her, dressed in a white shirt and black slacks. He had not been wearing that when he'd walked in. "Hey, Carrie," he said brightly.

"Kurt!" Laughing delightedly, she wrapped her arms around his neck. "It's been so long! What are you doing back in Ohio? And shouldn't you be home with Burt?" She pushed his shoulders back to stare at him seriously. "He's getting older, Kurt. You should come home more often to spend time with him."

"He's only 60, Carrie. I'm taking care of a shift so that we're not understaffed—I'll spend time with him tomorrow, promise."

She winked at him. "You better."

"I'll take those beers over for you, if you'd like?"

"Sure thing. Thanks!"

Humming quietly to himself, Kurt lifted the tray with expert ease and made his way back to the other side of the pub.

"How'd you get the uniform?" Puck asked under his breath.

"This waiter, Max. I found him in the back, just about to start his shift. He's had a crush on me ever since we met two years ago. He's only 25 so I'm older, wiser—that sort of thing. I simply, ahem, _persuaded _him to leave his clothes for me for a bit."

If anyone had been paying attention, they would have seen Blaine scowl.

"Get some, Hummel," Artie said proudly.

Puck took the beers from Kurt's tray, winking at Kurt before handing them to the thugs. Five seconds—count 'em, five whole seconds—later, Kurt was walking back to the bar with the contents of both Irishmen's pockets.

"I got cell phones and wallets." He dropped the tray on the bar and slipped into the kitchen. "_Max_," was all he said before taking out his earbud again. A moment later, he was back in his regular clothes and handing stuff over to Artie. "I also lifted this… I think it's Walsh's ledger."

Quinn grabbed it and began flipping through it. "It's written in code."

Blaine's voice, an underlying current throughout the evening, was suddenly present and overwhelming. "Five hundred that he misses," he said to Frankie.

The man nodded. "Done."

"And he drains it!" the announcer shouted, prompting Blaine to play disappointed and Frankie to pick up his money with a sneer. "I almost feel bad taking your money, Danny," he teased. When he lifted his eyes however, they landed on Blaine's untouched glass of scotch. "You too good to drink with me?"

Four months sober after the disaster that had almost ended his ex-boyfriend's newest relationship. He hadn't touched a drink since that night, unwilling to fall back to memories, unwilling to become that guy again. After Andrew had died, he'd been the worst drunk there was. He didn't want to go back to that. He didn't want to be that guy. He was disastrous around his team, stupid when planning cons, and altogether unaccountable when he was drunk. It had taken a lot to convince him to sober up. He didn't want to lose that.

"No, no," he said hurriedly. "I just—"

"I'm not betting again if you have the advantage of me, Danny boy."

He was serious.

Blaine could practically feel the stares of every one of his team members. Quinn and Artie were probably holding their breath; Puck was watching him out of the corner of his eye. The only one who didn't understand was Kurt. But he was smart. He had to remember that night.

_No, but thanks. I don't drink_.

He was playing the part though. He was a bookie that ran his business out of a bar. He had to drink.

"Yeah, you're right, I mean I—I might as well. Since I'm getting my ass handed to me." He swallowed tightly, staring at the glass. He reached for it. "Drown in my own sorrows here, yeah?"

Frankie nodded and refused to look away. He waited until Blaine had taken a sip before turning back to the TV with a pleased smirk.

Blaine closed his eyes, feeling the liquor slide over his tongue and down his throat. He'd missed it. A lot. Drunk for three years and going stone-cold sober for four months after… It did things to a person. He tried to ignore the glare Puck was giving him when he went in for another sip.

Kurt muttered, "So this is…not good?"

Artie shook his head. "Not really. Hey, I'm grabbing all I can off of the muscle's cells and we may be able to use some GPS coordinates to triangulate the location of Walsh's office."

"And I'm close to decoding the ledger," Quinn added.

"Names?" Kurt asked.

"And alphanumeric substitutions."

"You know how to read that?"

Quinn nodded. "Yeah, I trained in cryptography."

"And she went to Yale."

"Shut up, Puckerman."

"Never, Quinny."

"Blaine," Artie cut in. "Travis just got robbed."

He had to reach into a new pocket for dough to flop down in front of Frankie. "A thousand says Travis gets schooled."

"No way!"

Blaine downed the rest of his glass and didn't move, waiting for a response from Walsh about his loss.

"Travis gets payback. Double or nothing."

"You're good—Mason holds onto the ball," Artie said.

He took Walsh's money with a smile on his face. "For a loan shark, you're not very good with money, are you?" he asked as he poured another splash of scotch into his glass. It was gone seconds later, followed by another half-glass.

Frankie snorted. "We'll see."

"Blaine, Quinn cracked the ledger. At least forty names from Lima alone, more surrounding. He's way deeper in the city than we thought. He's also got stuff in New York and Chicago. Special needs kids, nursing homes—he's ripping off _everybody_." Artie looked back up at the TV just in time to catch the last few seconds of the game. "Oh, oh, oh—Blaine, Boston wins with a three-pointer." Silence. "Blaine." More silence. "Hey, _Blaine_!"

"That pile o' cash in front of ya looks might invitin'," Walsh said, voice slurred with drink. "I got a plane to catch. One last bet?"

Blaine swallowed another gulp of scotch. "There's almost ten thousand dollars here. You have the cash to match it?"

"Blaine!" Artie said insistently. "Make the bet _now_."

Walsh stared him down and Blaine could see the gears turning in his head. Was putting his father's money up worth the risk? "No." Apparently not. "My cash has other obligations." He set down a little cocktail napkin with a small stain in the top corner. Burt's.

"I'm not gonna take a marker," Blaine said.

"You don't have to take my marker. This is someone else's."

"Kurt," Puck said, "get out here so Walsh can recognize you. We need Walsh to sell you to Blaine."

Kurt went.

"What am I gonna do with someone else's marker?" Blaine asked.

Frankie took a moment to glance around the pub. Just as he looked towards the kitchens, Kurt burst out of them, followed by a tall man with spiky black hair and olive-toned skin. "Him—it's his marker."

"How the hell does he know you?" Quinn asked.

Kurt picked up a bottle of vodka, tossing it in the air and catching it deftly. The black-haired man—must've been Max—grinned at him. "I went and threatened him last year so he'd give my dad more time. It's been awhile but he's got one hell of a memory. You know what they say about elephants."

"How do I know he's good for it?" Blaine prompted, swirling his drink in his glass.

Frankie shrugged. "You don't. That's why it's called gambling."

"Blaine!" Artie shouted. "You got ten seconds! Make the bet!"

Kurt walked by Puck again, slipping him the phones and wallets to return to the thugs and collecting the empty glasses around them. He refused to meet Blaine's eye as he walked past them.

Quinn fidgeted. "What is he thinking?"

"He's not," Puck grunted.

"Don't be cocky, Anderson," Kurt said. "Do it."

There were two seconds of silence. And then Blaine shoved his cash forward and said, "Boston wins."

Frankie nodded. "Done."

Artie hollered, shoving his fists into the air. "Yes! Wohoo! Yes! Hell yeah!"

"I didn't realize you were so into basketball," Kurt said, leaning against the back counter and watching the pub.

"Basketball? Man, we just pulled off the wire in the time it takes to get a pizza delivered! This a big win—_big_. They're gonna talk about this one."

"No hard feelings, right?" Blaine asked his companion, finishing off his third—fourth?—glass of scotch and picking up the cash Frankie had left plus the marker.

"Ha! Good riddance." Frankie stood, leaning over the counter with an expression of utter anger. "That bastard's your problem now. It was a good way to kill some time. I come back, maybe we can do some real business, Danny Anderson."

"You're on."

Frankie reached the men's room right as the team reconvened in the side room.

"We're not letting him go," was the first thing out of Blaine's mouth. "Quinn, get out and stop him. Flirt. Make him stay."

But the blonde didn't move. "We saved the bar. We saved Burt. We're done."

"We're_ not_ letting him _go_," Blaine repeated. "You heard Artie. Special needs kids, nursing homes—this guy isn't getting away with it."

"So we'll put a tracker on his thugs," Artie said sternly. "We'll catch him in New York the next time he's there but we're done here, Blaine."

"I must've missed the memo that said you were in charge of the team, Abrams."

"And I must have missed the one that said you were okay with being a drunk again."

"Yeah," Puck said. "Would you even consider doing this if you were sober?"

Blaine nodded defensively. "I—I would _consider_ it."

"You know how you get, Blaine. You're a mess. You make stupid decisions and you put us all at risk. That move with the fiddle job? That wasn't cool. I nearly got killed. And that one with the judge—you almost got _yourself _shot and you put_ Quinn_ in harm's way. We're not taking orders from a drunk, Blaine. So sober up or leave."

It was quiet for a moment before Blaine cleared his throat. "Back to the hotel, we meet at Mr. Hummel's place tomorrow morning."

-0-

When Kurt hugged his father and told him he wouldn't be losing the bar, Blaine felt his chest tighten. Burt looked so…happy.

"Do I want to know how?" he asked his son.

"Probably not."

They filed out one by one, saying quick hellos and goodbyes to Burt. Blaine gave him the cash he'd won off of Frankie and Burt's eyes widened.

"Yeah," he said, "I really don't wanna know."

Blaine was going towards the door when Burt's voice stopped him.

"I'm gonna need you to be honest with me here, son," he said. "You sleeping with my kid?"

Blaine swallowed tightly. Screw honesty. "No, sir. I'm not." Not regularly, anyway.

"Huh. And you're sure you're not dating?"

"Yes, sir."

"I see how you watch him, Anderson. I only saw you two together for maybe twenty minutes and I could tell. That's how I used to look at Lizzie. That's how I look at Carole now and how my parents looked at each other when I was growing up. If you're not dating him, you better have a damn good reason for being such a chicken."

Blaine decidedly ignored the loud thumping of his heart. "We…have a mutual understanding, Mr. Hummel. I care about him, yes. But I care about my whole crew. Your son is one of the most…compassionate people I know. And he's damn good at what he does."

"Good at being a liar."

"We've helped a lot of people, sir."

"I told you, kid. I don't want to know. But you take care of him, okay? Promise me that."

Blaine nodded. "I promise."

"And the next time I see you, you better have made up your mind about my son."

"Yes, sir."

When he got out to the car, Kurt took in his expression and laughed. "He threaten you?"

"Not in so many words."

"The rest of the team drove back in Artie's van. We have time before our flight. Wanna go get a drink?"

Blaine nodded immediately. "A strong drink."

"Strong like vodka or strong like hot chocolate?"

"Strong like it's not even nine in the morning yet and I need coffee."

"Coming right up."

The café was quaint, just like the rest of the town, and Blaine watched Kurt as they slid into a booth, feeling something in the air that seemed like completion. A full circle. It felt like everything was done, like they were finished, like this was the last time he'd ever see Kurt. The thought settled uncomfortably in his stomach.

"I apologize for my father," Kurt said when they got their coffee.

"You don't have to."

"He's my dad. You know how they get." Kurt laughed quietly, as if remembering something amusing, but when he looked at Blaine again his smile fell away. "You do know, don't you?"

He shrugged. "I know the way my dad got. But I have a feeling they're two completely different…_ways_."

"How so?"

"Your dad… He doesn't care that you're gay."

Kurt shook his head immediately and emphatically. "Nope."

"Well. My dad wanted me to settle down, that's true. But he would have preferred if it'd been with a woman. Someone that he and my mom would pick out for me. That's how our family was. All prim and proper and orderly. My brother Cooper got married to a nice girl right after law school. I was the problem child."

"Is that why you became a thief?"

Blaine chuckled. "No. At least, I don't think so. But maybe—as a way to rebel against what he wanted."

There was a pause. Then, "So, you like to drink."

Blaine set his mug down on the table and stared at it. "Yeah."

"But not anymore."

"Nope."

"Why?"

Blaine smirked without humor and lifted his head. "Maybe I'll tell you one day."

"I'd have to stick around long enough for that to happen."

"Yes. You would."

Kurt bumped his foot into Blaine's. "You're not a bad guy, Anderson. You're probably the most moral of all of us. You just… You have a kryptonite. We all do. Artie has his wheelchair, Puck has his anger; I'm sure Quinn has something. But your kryptonite doesn't define you. You can be a person beyond your drinking just like Artie can be a person beyond his chair."

Blaine smiled softly at the man across from him. "What's your kryptonite?"

Kurt laughed, grabbing Blaine's jaw and forcing him to meet his eyes. "No way, Anderson. I'm not that easy." But after a moment's hesitation, he leaned in and kissed Blaine on the lips before leaving the café.


End file.
